


Living the Normal Life

by Nell65



Series: Living the Normal Life [1]
Category: La Femme Nikita the Series
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-01
Updated: 2010-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-09 06:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nell65/pseuds/Nell65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What does life look like for a widowed parent on the run?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living the Normal Life

"WOO HOO! Yoo-ee!" Adam burst up out of the water, droplets scattering wildly as he shook out his hair and ran splashing for the shore.

Michael looked up from the campfire he was stirring back to life. Eyeing his son's naked body exploding from the cold Minnesota lake, new muscles sharply outlined under glistening skin, he received one of parenthood's familiar shocks. Sometime when he had not been paying attention, Adam had left childhood behind and was fully entered into his long-hinted-at puberty.

It won't be long now until I can leave him, Michael thought. And received his second shock of the morning. The quick wave of anticipation he felt, as he always did when thinking of his return to Nikita, crested and broke, leaving only a messy mix of regret and guilt and painful desire in its wake. To Michael's astonishment, he realized that he already missed the now vanished little boy he had brought to the northern United States almost six years ago. He fought to recall how small and slight Adam had been then, how thin and fragile his arms had seemed when Adam wound them tightly around Michael's neck in joyful relief when he learned that they could stay for a long time. Michael was seized by an apprehension that if he failed to fully recollect everything about Adam's childhood now, it might all disappear into a single blurred image.

Awash in the strange new sensation of wistful bewilderment, Michael realized that "a long time" had passed in the blink of an eye, and the little boy he had been so assiduously protecting and loving and nurturing and training to survive on his own was not nearly so little any more. Instead of filling him with relief for a task half completed, the knowledge carried with it a wholly unforeseen sense of melancholy loss. Looking now at Adam's maturing body, Michael found himself wondering if, in his unending desire to get back to Nikita, he might have failed to cherish enough each and every irreplaceable moment of Adam's childhood.

As Adam fought his way through the frisking dogs to reach his clothes, he must have seen something of Michael's surprise and confusion in his expression, and following the direction of his father's gaze flushed slightly and grinned. "What are you looking at Dad?"

"You're growing up."

Adam, ears burning, ducked his head in pleased embarrassment and reached for his clothes, "Uh, yeh-ah."

Michael heard the implied 'Duh,' as Adam tugged his jeans up his still damp legs.

Smiling, Michael turned back to the fire and rifled through the pack of food, searching for the coffee. After getting the percolator set up, he sat back on his heels so he could admire the patches of blue sky visible through the canopy of bright yellow maple leaves. His gaze drifted down across their campsite to take in the dark surface of the small lake, mirroring the trees glowing in their autumn glory in the morning sun along the opposite shoreline.

As he turned his gaze back to rest on Adam, Michael realized that this was one of those parenting opportunities that should be seized. "Do you have any questions?"

Adam looked up from under his dark brows, intentionally dense, "about what?"

Michael grinned and turned back to breakfast preparation. "About growing up?"

After a few minutes, Adam glanced up from tying his boots, his voice studiously dispassionate as he asked, "How old were you when you first had sex?"

Looking at his son now, trying so hard for an expression of disinterested nonchalance, his face lit by the clear rays of the early morning sun that eliminated all shadows and planes, Michael could only see the child whose nightmares he had banished and tears he had dried and not the young man he had glimpsed just a moment ago. He considered lying, but then, looking into his son's earnest brown eyes, he kept the promise he had made to himself and to the image of Nikita – to tell none but absolutely essential lies.

As Adam would be thirteen soon, it cost him something to answer.

"Fifteen," he said as he gave the oatmeal a vigorous stirring, glancing up from under his eyelashes to catch Adam's reaction.

Adam's eyes went slightly round and his hands momentarily stilled while buttoning his flannel shirt. "Wow." He paused, considering. "Was it hard?"

Looking at Adam's serious expression, Michael squashed the desire to laugh at the unintentional double entendre. "Was what hard?"

"You know." Adam shrugged helplessly, "figuring it all out?"

Michael considered for a moment, trying to decide what he could say, what would be true and yet what Adam would be able to understand. "It was awkward, and over very, very quickly, but everything is right where the books tell you it is."

Adam looked at Michael, an expression of confused wonder on his face, "and girls like it?"

Michael had to laugh then. "When boys are awkward and fast? No. Generally not."

"Then why…?"

"It gets better as you get older."

Adam grinned saucily and cracked his knuckles over his head. "Uh, gee, Dad? Is that supposed to be a hint? To wait till I'm older?"

Returning the grin, Michael said, "Yes."

Adam rose, picked up a stick and turned to throw it for the dogs. "Do as I say and not as I do, huh?"

"Something like that." Michael kept his tone light, even as his heart squeezed painfully tight at the thought of Adam following in his own treacherous footsteps.

Apparently feeling the conversation was now over, Adam laughed and hurled the stick out over the still surface of the lake, a stillness immediately broken by the dogs charging in after it.

Michael decided that he had not said quite all he wanted to before the moment was lost. "Adam."

Adam looked over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

Michael raised his voice enough that his words wouldn't be lost over the clamor of the dogs. "You will be a sexually active adult most of your life. There is no reason to rush."

Adam stopped playing with the dogs and turned back to Michael, raising his shoulders and eyeing him skeptically. "Are you going to tell me to 'wait for the right one' now?"

Michael shook his head. "No."

"Oh." Adam dropped his shoulders, obviously a little surprised by this answer. "Why?"

"It could be a long wait."

Adam came over to the fire and squatted down, peering into the frying pan. "How old were you when you found the 'right one?"

Michael did not have to close his eyes to remember that night on the barge. He could still catch the scent of gas and saltwater, old oil and rust. He could still see the moonlight shining weakly through the filthy portholes, and in the gloom of the interior, Nikita burning with an incandescent flame. It rose up in front of him like it was yesterday. Caught up in memory, he did not even pause as he answered, "thirty-four."

"It took nineteen years?" Adam's horrified tone snapped Michael back to the present. "Oh man! I hope it was worth the wait." A disbelieving chuckle followed this remark.

Michael turned his attention back to the fire, hastily taking stock of the state of their meal. He was deeply relieved to announce that breakfast was ready. Watching Adam inhale an amount of food that would have made a pro-wrestler blush – they had recently traded in backpacking for car-camping when Michael realized that he would have to fill an entire pack with food just to get Adam through thirty-six hours – he reflected wryly on the way age changed perception.

It had never occurred to him to measure the time from his first sexual experience to Nikita, much less consider it 'waiting.' After all, he had loved more than one of his partners before Nikita, and he had loved his first wife deeply and without reservation. If he had never met Nikita, he would never have suspected that he had not yet encountered the 'right one.' He would have gone to his grave believing that he had and her name was Simone.

And yet… after Nikita, he had never been the same. The tumultuous decades of his life before they found each other paled in comparison to the intensity of all that had happened since that first, fateful encounter in the white room. From that day on, the longer they were in contact, the more inevitable their final coming together was, in all its passion, and glory, and pain. If they could have avoided it, knowing what was coming, maybe they both could have, would have, done so.

He promptly chided himself for that ridiculous speculation. He had known. He had known with certainty that their lives would be near unbearable; full of betrayal, manipulation, and lies of almost unimaginable magnitude. And he could no more have stopped himself that night than he could have held back the tide. That her love and passion would match his own was something he had longed for and counted on, and yet, in the moment of confirmation, had been a revelation that shattered his world.

In the end, they both had decided that satisfying their need for each other was worth risking not only their own lives, but also the lives of everyone around them. For each other they had broken just about every rule there was. Not just Section rules either, they had broken several of the Ten Commandments too. How on earth could he ever explain to a twelve-year old that finding the 'right one' could be one of the most dangerous things you would ever do?

Even now he was doing dangerous things when it came to Nikita. Telling Adam the truth about his age when he and Nikita first came together was a ridiculously careless thing to do. In time, and sooner rather than later, his quiet, thoughtful son would put two and two together and start asking questions that Michael did not yet know how to answer.

************

After they finished eating, Michael directed Adam to wash up the breakfast things while he collected and checked the gear they would need for the day's hunting. While they worked, Michael kept glancing over at Adam out of the corner of his eye, trying to find in Adam's wiry, twelve-year-old body the remnants of the softly rounded child he barely remembered, trying to guess at the hints of the young man to come.

He also used the time to review all he had accomplished with Adam, and to consider again what still lay ahead as he prepared Adam for the day he would leave him to return to Nikita.

Most important, they were still free.

There were two basic strategies for hiding from enemies and friends. One was to keep moving, never lingering in one place too long or forging any deep ties to a place or to its people. The other was to pick a spot with lots of natural cover and nestle in, acquiring as much protective coloring as possible. With a small child in tow and otherwise all alone, rendering him extremely vulnerable to predators and scavengers alike, Michael took the lesson from nature and chose camouflage.

After traveling around the globe long enough to be certain as he could be that they had avoided or evaded any immediate pursuit, Michael had clutched Adam tightly to his chest, looked over his shoulder one last time, and then dove in to St. Paul, Minnesota. He had chosen Minnesota because it was in the United States, yet close enough to Quebec and French Canada that Michael's own faint accent and fresh new French surname would pass without notice. In the twin cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul there was also a large enough polyglot population that his dark eyed, dark haired son would be accepted as his without notice. The twin cities also had the advantage of being relatively far from places where there was much chance that Michael would stumble across either enemies or allies from his old life. When they finally surfaced, he had them settled into a quiet neighborhood, Adam was enrolled in first grade and Michael was working as a house painter.

Michael worked, not because they needed the money, but because normal men, innocent men, worked to feed their families. A man who did not work would have caught too much attention and required too much explanation. He could, of course, have manufactured the credentials necessary for a white-collar position, but he wanted to avoid any employment where his Section-trained skills would be too apparent to any observer looking for such things, and his lack of ambition would have to be explained away.

He had chosen the trades because they were about as far removed from what he had done in Section and before as he could imagine, and because he could slip gently and easily into the fluid world of blue-collar laborers. Michael chose house painting because most of the other building trades required some sort of certification or licensure, and city or county permits; more contact with officialdom than Michael felt comfortable with. Painting required none of these, and so he had worked for and then eventually bought out a local painter. He had owned and operated the small painting business for several years now.

As time had passed, Michael had deepened and broadened their cover until it was now so thick and dense that Adam was no longer aware of it as a disguise, it was simply his life. He lived in a house like most of his friends, he went to school with children he had known since he was six, he played sports and the violin, computer games and chess. Along with all the other children he knew, he had learned to swim and to ice skate, and Michael, like all the other parents in their circle, had signed Adam up for soccer and little league and ice hockey and basketball and American-style flag-football.

Michael was also taking full advantage of their Minnesota setting to teach Adam to camp and to fish, to ski and to snowshoe, to canoe and to sail. He was doing these things because he genuinely loved most out-door activities and he wanted Adam to love them too. He knew as well that the day would come when Adam would need activities that gave him peace and solace in the face of loss. He knew from experience that Adam would need good memories of his father someday, and Michael hoped that, much as his own memories of similar times with his own father had done for him, these shared times would be as much a part of Adam' healing as his bereavement.

Michael was also introducing Adam to outdoor life as a way of teaching Adam survival skills and independence in a way that looked, and felt, like the experience of many of Adam's friends and acquaintances. He was teaching Adam to hunt for survival reasons alone. Hunting was the most socially invisible way that he could think of to train Adam in the use and care of firearms. Michael was confident that their cover was as good as he could make it, but he knew that chance could trip them up and send them on the run again. If that happened, he could not afford for Adam to be surprised or frightened merely by the existence of guns.

The two areas where there was the most continuity from Adam's previous life with Michael and Elena, when they had still been a family, however artificial, were music and martial arts. Adam had already begun to play the violin even before Michael had left them, as he had already begun to study karate. Michael had continued both, for he could honestly share his love of music with Adam as he could share his love for the out of doors, and like guns, martial arts were part of a foundation in self-defense Michael was determined to give Adam. Fortunately, both music and martial arts were quite popular among Minnesota parents, so Michael didn't look at all out of place in pushing Adam into either.

These patterns were all well established after six years of work, and Michael knew that the most difficult challenge ahead would be for him to stay within them now that Adam was entering his teens. These next six years were the time when Adam needed to separate from Michael, to become independent and able to stand on his own. Yet these coming years were also a time in which, ironically, Michael needed to be able to control their environment more closely than ever so that Adam did not venture out from under their meticulously constructed cover and draw unwanted attention to them both.

Unfortunately, without paying nearly enough attention to what he was doing, he had just altered his carefully crafted time-line of their family history by admitting how old he was when he first made love to Nikita. He knew, to his extreme irritation, that by doing so, he had just invited Adam to re-open the dangerous subject of the past. An invitation Adam was sure to accept.

Adam remembered Michael's 'death,' and he remembered his kidnapping at the hands of the Collective, and Michael had been forced to explain both, often and at length, when they were first re-united. Adam had been far too young to fully understand what was happening or why, and as far as Michael could tell, there were no open wounds from those years, though he was sure he could see the scars. Nonetheless, and especially when Adam was younger, Michael had had to explain it all, over and over, as he reassured Adam that he would not be kidnapped again. More perplexing, and much more frustrating for a small child, Michael also had to explain to him how it was that his father had died and come back, but that his mother had died and would not.

So Michael had never been able to pretend the past had not happened, and he knew that he could not afford any unanswered questions that might push Adam to search for elusive answers elsewhere either. Following the dictum that the truth is always stronger, always better than a lie, Michael spun a story that was mostly true. He told Adam that his maternal grandfather had been an important man in his country, and that he had been killed by terrorists, terrorists Michael had seen, and so had to hide from, thus leaving his family to keep them safe. Michael had explained that the terrorists were very determined, and found Adam and his mother anyway, for Adam remembered leaving a house in the middle of supper one evening and losing his beloved teddy-bear forever. The terrorists were so determined, in fact, that they had eventually found Adam, after Elena died, and kidnapped him to force Michael out of hiding.

Michael assured Adam, endlessly, that the police had been able to use the kidnapping to capture and imprison the kidnappers forever. However, he also explained to Adam that they had left Europe and moved to the United States, just in case, and further, that, just in case, they would not tell their new friends about their past unless it was absolutely necessary.

It was hard to keep repeating the same story over and over, but whenever Michael was tempted to brush off another of Adam's questions, he had only to recall the disasters that had flowed from Nikita's stubborn desire to understand her own history. This would always drive him to answer clearly and in whatever detail Adam demanded.

The questions had slowed over the years, but every now and again Adam would surprise him with a request that he repeat the story, and Adam had an uncanny ear for the slightest alteration from the last time Michael told the tale.

Unfortunately, due to his unwary tongue, Michael was certain he would now have to find a way to incorporate Nikita into their narrative. Castigating himself again for his carelessness, Michael glanced over at Adam as they followed the dogs, who were following some scent known only to themselves.

Adam was walking across a field of late wildflowers and fading, waist high grass, his shotgun carried easily over his still bony shoulder as he tracked the dogs. His eyes were bright against the darkly tanned skin that was the heritage of his Persian mother, and his soft cheek wholly ignorant of the need of a razor. Michael reminded himself that while Adam was no longer a little boy, he was not nearly ready to be a man either, and that it would be Michael's job to keep him safe and whole until he was.

************

In the end, Michael did not have very long at all to plan his approach to acknowledging his love affair with Nikita. Late that same afternoon, Adam raised the subject as they were ambling down a fire road that cut through the state forest, open shotguns under their arms. Their weary pair of black labs were still casting about in the lead, but by only twenty feet or so. The slowly sinking western sun was warm and yellow, but the late September shade was cool and damp, making Michael glad he had chosen to wear his canvas jacket under the bright orange hunting vest. It had been a good day, they had each gotten off several shots and Adam had bagged two grouse which, following a pattern familiar to parents everywhere, Michael carried in the game bag.

"Dad." Adam paused to kick a rock. "When you were thirty-four I was already two years old."

Well, here it is, Michael thought. "Yes," he agreed mildly.

"Nikita, right?" Adam refused to look directly at his father, concentrating instead on the dogs.

"Yes."

"She's not your cousin, is she?" Adam struggled to keep his tone as even and bland as he could and mostly succeeded.

"No."

"Did mom know?"

"I don't think so." Michael still hoped this was true.

"So, Nikita was your mistress, right?" There was a hard edge in Adam's tone that Michael did not fail to hear.

"No."

"No?" Adam's voice dripped with disbelief.

"No. I wouldn't do that to her or your mother."

"But, you said—"

"Yes. Then I walked away. Hurting Nikita terribly in the process."

"But, she came to visit us. Just before you 'died'." The look of challenge in Adam's eyes was unmistakable.

"She needed my help and came looking for me. She didn't know about you or your mother or I'm sure she wouldn't have come."

That made Adam break his stride. "Didn't know?"

"No."

"So, why did she stay?" Adam raised his shoulders in confusion.

"She and your mother liked each other. Your mother invited her to stay."

Adam curled his lip. "That's twisted."

You have no idea, Michael thought, but all he said was "Yes."

After a moment Adam dropped his gaze and turned back towards the trail.

They walked on in silence, which if not exactly companionable, was not openly hostile either. Michael guessed what had to be coming, but waited for Adam to get to it on his own.

Adam suddenly called the dogs to heel in an impatient tone, scolding them for drifting behind as they made their way toward their campsite. Then, after taking off his cap, scrubbing his head and putting his cap back on, he spoke again, "You had to leave Mom and me because you saw the men who killed my grandfather."

"Yes."

"And she told everybody you died." The 'even me' though unvoiced, hung in the air. Michael could hear all the hurt Adam still felt over this lie. It settled in his gut and stirred up all the guilt he carried there.

With a silent plea for forgiveness directed to his memory of Elena, Michael answered, "Yes."

"And then the terrorists found us and we had to disappear too. And they still found me, even after Mom died, and kidnapped me."

"Yes."

"But Nikita was with you when you got me back from the kidnappers."

"Yes."

Adam nodded slowly, then fell silent. By this time they had gotten close enough to their campsite for the dogs to rush ahead and plunge into the small lake. Adam said nothing else until after they had put up their guns, unloaded the day's game and begun preparations for the evening meal. Michael was re-starting the fire and Adam was searching out small stones and skipping them across the still, reflective surface of the water, when he spoke again. "Were you 'with' Nikita the whole time?"

Michael had realized that there was no way out of this particular mine field except through it. "Yes."

Adam started throwing smaller rocks and broken bits of shale against a small reef. "Anything else you lied about?"

The throw that followed this remark was so hard the shale shattered into several smaller pieces, each hitting the water with solid little plunk.

Michael finished what he was doing, then walked over to where Adam was standing, the last of the wavelets caused by the shattered shale still breaking against his boots. Michael reached out and put his hand on Adam's shoulder, "Adam, look at me."

Adam turned, crossed his arms defensively across his chest and thrust out his chin. Michael looked down into a pair of slightly suspicious, slightly angry eyes. Oddly enough, they reminded him of Nikita, despite being brown and about a foot lower. "Adam, I was convinced that leaving permanently was the best way to protect you and your mother. I was wrong, but I believed it at the time. What you were never told was that Nikita was at the hospital that day too, she also saw the men who killed your grandfather."

Adam pulled his head back in surprise. "What?"

Michael let go of Adam's shoulder and stuffed his hands into his pockets as he turned to look out over the water. "Yes. She had to hide as well, so we went together. She helped me through my grief over losing you and your mother. She forgave me for not telling her about my family." Michael paused to shake his head slightly in continuing wonder for that act of compassion, then continued, "In time we were together."

Michael swiveled around and ducked his head to look Adam in the eye again, "and so when we were finally told about your mother's death we came for you – but the kidnappers got to you first. Once I got you back, I knew you and I needed to leave Europe and start over in a new place."

Adam narrowed his eyes. "You told me that she didn't come with us to the States because she had a family of her own." Adam cocked his head and asked, in a tone dripping with contempt, "was she cheating on someone too?"

Michael frowned and answered as firmly as he knew how. "No. She was not. She stayed because her father, who was old and ill, needed her."

Adam dropped his arms, then stuck his hands in his back pockets. "And now?"

Michael draped his arm over Adam's back, and squeezed his shoulder ever so gently. "She has her responsibilities there. You and I have our life here."

Adam released a deep breath; his shoulders dropping as the tension started to ebb away. He pursed his lips, then, speaking softly, said, "Yeah. I guess we do."

Michael hugged him harder.

Adam leaned into Michael's one-armed embrace for a moment before breaking away, asking, "So, what's for dinner?"

************

Over the next several weeks Michael waited for Adam to raise the subject of Nikita and the past again, but Adam did not. Gradually Michael relaxed as the routines of fall absorbed them both. Adam was fully engaged by the new environment of seventh grade and his various extra-curricular activities. Michael was working hard to finish the last of the exterior paint jobs he scheduled for the outside season, especially as most of his summer crew had returned to high school or college by now.

Truth was, between them he and Adam shared very little down time. Their days were taken up by the business of living. For Adam there was school and its ever-increasing amounts of homework, music lessons, sports practices and games. For Michael the endless record keeping of running a small business plus visiting potential clients, providing estimates for painting jobs large and small, and scheduling the work once his bid was accepted, filled his days and took time in the evenings too.

On Wednesday nights and Saturday mornings they worked out at their Aikido dojo. Adam was studying with the children's class, and as part of his own program to keep at least the foundation of his own skills intact, Michael sparred during periods of open mat time with a handful of fellow students who could, more or less, meet him in skill and proficiency.

Weekend afternoons and evenings found Adam increasingly occupied with friends, with Michael regularly driving groups of boys in perpetual motion to various destinations – the local mall, the movies, each other's houses. Sunday mornings they went to church, Adam was an altar boy now and sometimes served Saturday evening mass or Sunday eventide too.

It had been easy enough for Adam to blend into their new world in Minnesota, but it had been much more difficult for Michael. He had to adapt the silence and stillness that allowed him to survive Section to a much noisier, busier world. He quickly realized that he needed help, and more camouflage, and so they joined a large, active church not long after establishing themselves in St. Paul. Elena had been introducing Adam to her own reviving Islamic faith, but Michael had decided that on his own, he would do a better job if he stayed within the Catholic traditions of his own upbringing. The church congregation had more than stepped up to the task of providing for Michael and his motherless son, enveloping them both with comfort, community and friendship.

The camping trip at the end of September had been their last period of uninterrupted time together. Their quiet life seemed to be moving on, the ripples from the past invisible in the bustle of their days.

But not gone. Maybe it was just fall in Minnesota, but as the leaves disappeared from the trees and the skies began to fill with snow, Michael felt a melancholy growing within that he couldn't seem to squelch no matter how hard he tried. And he did try. He at last hired a third full-time employee so he could take larger commercial jobs or work two private jobs at once. He accepted a call to serve on the physical renovations committee at their church. He forced himself to accept one out of every three invitations from male acquaintances to join them for a drink or a card game. He accepted every invitation he could from the group of longtime friends they had made in the six years they had lived in the city. He was as involved as ever with Adam's life, preparing with Adam for a cello - violin duet at the fall parent and child recital, keeping an eye on homework and grades, staying abreast of new friends and monitoring new activities, serving on the parent council for the middle school.

He knew though that things had gotten desperate when he discovered himself playing bouncer at the middle school Homecoming dance.

"Hey Mike, your turn on the hallway run." Frank Coleman was one of the assistant principals and the father of one of Adam's soccer teammates.

"Great." Michael grimaced, then turned toward the hallway that led to the open restrooms. The only advantage to this as far as he could tell was that the music from the deejay was slightly less deafening once outside the gym that was serving tonight as a dance hall. Rousting precocious young couples from their trysts in the darkened hallway was hideous work. He hoped that Adam would not be out there – not that he really suspected he would be, but how mortifying for them both if he was. Walking as loudly as possible in his circuit of the open hallways, most were gated closed, he came across only two sets of entwined couples, who fled before his shadow, giggling as they sped back toward the relative light and noise of the gym.

As he made his way back toward the gym himself, he tried to remember what he had thought about girls when he was their age. He found himself imagining instead what Nikita had looked like at thirteen, all bony arms and legs and enormous blue eyes. He rubbed his hand across his face in exasperation, scrubbing his chin through the neatly trimmed beard that he (and half the tradesmen of Minnesota) cultivated. You are a sick man Michael, he thought, you were twenty-three years old when Nikita was thirteen.

Yes, said a quiet voice from deep inside his head, but she's not thirteen now.

Driving home that night, a companionable silence fell after they dropped off the last of Adam's friends. Adam was staring out the window into the darkness beyond when he asked, "Dad, what do you think about dating?"

"I think you're too young."

"No. Not for me. For you."

"For me?"

"Yeah. When was the last time you went on a date?"

Before you were born, before I came to Section, before I went to prison for killing innocent people with bombs, Michael thought. He said, "I don't remember."

"Exactly. Why don't you?'

"Go on dates?"

"Uh, yeah." Adam half laughed, long since accustomed to his father's habit of answering one question with another question.

"I don't meet that many available women."

"Dad. Chicks hit on you all the time."

"Chicks?"

"Yeah. Like the one last week when you took us to the batting cages."

Michael remembered her, a reasonably attractive bottled blond somewhere in her thirties, who kept 'accidentally' bumping into him. All he said was, "Hmmm."

"So, why don't you date?"

Michael thought for a while about how to answer this question. He had considered it. Dating was a natural part of their cover. In fact, his failure to do so had drawn the attention of his adult friends and acquaintances. Their priest had even mentioned Michael's determinedly single state with some concern. But he could not bring himself to do it, it felt too much like valentine work – just the consideration of which made his skin crawl.

"I don't know when I'd find the time to meet someone, much less go out on dates."

"Oh." Adam let out a slightly self-conscious chuckle and started fiddling with the seat belt strap. "But, don't you get, like, well, you know, missing 'it'?"

As the answer was simultaneously 'all the time' and 'not especially,' it took Michael a moment to respond. Eventually he said, "not enough to be desperate."

"Uhggg."

Michael swallowed his grin. "Why are you suddenly so interested in my dating life? You thinking about dating yourself?"

Adam looked carefully at his fingernails. "Jake is going-with Erin Andersen."

"Ahh. What's 'going-with'?"

"Da-ad. You know."

"I grew up in France, remember? It might be different here."

With the conversation safely redirected into the complex social mores of the middle school dating scene, the rest of the trip home passed uneventfully.

 

***********

As he lay awake and alone in his bed that night, watching the line of moonlight drift slowly across the sloped ceiling of his dormer bedroom, Michael wondered if celibacy was what was wrong with him after all. Maybe he was feeling grumpy and out of sorts because he knew exactly when he had last had sex with another person. And it had been a very long time. In the six and a half years since leaving Nikita's temporary section quarters, he had had less than a dozen fleeting encounters, most with near-strangers in inappropriate places, and he had not had one of those in more than three years.

It certainly was not that he had intended to be celibate out of loyalty to the promise he had made to Nikita about coming back to her. He had not really thought about it, but if he had asked himself then he was reasonably sure he would have assumed that he would have a series of brief, casual affairs.

Instead the realities of being a full-time father to Adam eliminated any immediate prospect of a regular sex life. At first, he had been entirely too paranoid to leave Adam with a sitter. Formal daycare, and then, elementary school, with all its checks and safety precautions had been bad enough, and he wasn't up to doing background checks on babysitters just so he could go cruise the bars in the hopes of meeting a potential girlfriend.

He had also quickly realized that Adam was terrified that his father would disappear again. Not that Adam was clingy. He was too cautious even for that. But he obviously wanted to know where Michael was at all times; if Michael lingered in the kitchen or the bathroom, Adam was sure to wander in, just checking on his whereabouts. And for several years Michael had woken up four or five nights a week to discover Adam curled up beside him in his bed. His son had lost so much, so quickly; Michael could not bear to worry Adam any further by complicating his life with girlfriends Michael did not really want anyway.

When he finally began to have the odd night to himself, once Adam was willing to go to the occasional sleep-over at a friend's, it was such a relief to be alone that the last thing he wanted to do was rush out for a one-night hookup.

Sometimes too, he did feel, for want of a better word, hunted. He was aware that as a responsible, attractive single father he was a prime catch in a limited field. But there were weeks when he felt he could not go outside without being sure to receive at least one awkward invitation a day. It could make him want to retreat inside his house and bar the door behind him.

His bed squeaked faintly in protest as he rolled over in an unsuccessful attempt to find a more comfortable spot. The irritating noise was the result of having chosen an old iron bed frame from a junk dealer merely because it reminded him of a bed in his grandmother's house in a small town a few hours outside of Marseilles. He had purchased the story and a half bungalow on a quiet old street as part of his quest to offer Adam as much stability as he could, certain that Adam would withstand the future better for having firm roots now. He had furnished it in about a week – with the unsurprising result that some of the choices had been unsatisfactory over the long run. The worst mistakes – like a dinette set whose ponderous "Victorian" styling turned out to be more than Michael could take – had been rectified. Minor problems, like his squeaky bed, they were still living with. And it still reminded him of his grandmother.

He wondered if maybe it was time to revise his attitude about dating. Casual did not have to mean meaningless or secret. Dating did not have to be like valentine work, it could simply be a man and a woman getting to know each other. But, if he did start dating, whom should he date? He reviewed all the single women he knew, from work or the neighborhood or the dojo, and rejected them one by one as potential candidates. This one was too young, that one smoked, this one had children, that one was a friend, she was a student at the dojo, the other had a annoying laugh, in short, none of them would do. Obviously, he reasoned to himself, if he'd been attracted to someone he already knew, he would have asked her out already; probably, most likely, possibly anyway. Besides, he thought, no point in fouling my own nest.

He stared up at the moonlit ceiling, seeking inspiration there – and not finding any. He decided that the best he could do was stay open to possibility when he met new people. But, as he had pointed out to Adam, their lives were so full that he really did not meet all that many new people – with the exception of clients and that was not a road he was prepared to take for a whole host of reasons.

Which left him exactly where he was – alone, frustrated, and wide awake in the middle of the night.

The bed squeaked when he rolled over again.

 

************

November first, first day of deer season, fell on a Wednesday. Deer season was becoming a particularly special occasion in Michael and Adam's household because Adam's birthday was November second. He would be thirteen this year. Michael was not all that enthusiastic about hunting on opening weekends in general, much less opening weekend of deer season, but with Adam's birthday coming right on top of opening day, it was impossible for him to deny Adam's burning desire to participate in this particularly North American annual rite. Last year was the first that Adam was old enough under Minnesota hunting law, and they had celebrated with a hunting trip. The weather had been awful and chased them home early, so this year Adam was determined to do it better.

Accordingly, on Friday afternoon after school Michael and the dogs collected Adam and then Charlie, a friend also newly thirteen, and headed northwest towards Bimidgi, where Charlie's family had a small hunting cabin. Though nearly the same age as Adam, and like Adam an athletic boy and avid outdoor sports enthusiast, Charlie was at least three inches taller. Charlie also styled his thick wavy brown hair into a stiff brush-cut, giving him an even greater height advantage.

Michael knew it was pointless to be disappointed that Adam was unlikely to be as tall as he was, but he was anyway.

The boys were almost manic with excitement – though they were trying mightily to adopt an air of cool unconcern. They talked almost nonstop during the entire two-hour trip, comparing notes about their different middle schools, teachers, classes and friends, but mostly, giggling hysterically over inane jokes.

And of course, they talked hunting. They had gone turkey hunting together in the spring, an experience that now was re-lived in vivid detail. The afternoon Adam had shot his tom after Charlie's expert use of the turkey call grew in the retelling into an epic of near Greek proportion.

The boys had not hunted together during the fall birding season, so they shared the stories of their individual hunts. Charlie and his older brother Paul had spent a couple of weekends at their cabin and bagged several birds each. Michael was very curious to learn how Adam would describe September's grouse hunting expedition. But with the single mindedness of adolescent boys, Adam happily launched into detailed descriptions of the moments he shot his birds.

If Adam harbored any anger over the revelation of Michael's infidelity to Elena, it didn't appear to affect his memory of that day's hunting.

At the cabin they joined Charlie's parents, his brother and their older sister. All three Peterson children were tall and trim, like their parents. Michael had met Dan Peterson, Charlie's dad, at a Minnesota Department of Natural Resources workshop introducing kids to basics of hunting safety almost four years ago. On discovering that their sons were the same age, almost to the day, they had introduced them and Charlie and Adam had been hunting buddies ever since.

 

************

 

For the joint celebration that night, Michael had prepared Adam's favorite meal, a version of beef bourguignon that he had learned from his mother. It required two days to marinate in the refrigerator before slow cooking, which he had done that morning, filling their small house with smells of his childhood. It did not take long to fill the Peterson's cabin with the inviting aromas either, for the cabin was basically a one room hunting shack that had been enlarged just enough to add a bathroom and three very tiny bedrooms with built in bunk beds. In many ways, it reminded Michael very much of many small cabins he had seen in Sweden and Finland.

Charlie's mom Sheila served out the birthday cake and ice cream. Then Charlie and Adam ripped into the presents the families had brought with them. Michael had given Adam some smaller presents the morning of his birthday, but tonight presented him with his main gift, a brand new hunting rifle with all the necessary accouterments.

Adam, dark eyes glowing and near speechless with delight, held the rifle in his lap for the rest of the evening, occasionally stroking the smooth grain of the wood stock or the silky slickness of the new barrel with reverent fingers.

Michael could not help but reflect on the difference between Adam's pleasure in his new rifle and the stricken horror in Nikita's blue eyes when he had once made her the gift of a gun. His expression hardened unconsciously as he thought that if her father had wanted to Nikita to have a gun in her hands he damn well should have had the courage to put it there himself.

Michael caught Sheila looking at him inquisitively. "You okay?" she mouthed across the crowded, lamp-lit room.

He smiled reassuringly and pulled himself out of old bitterness through force of will.

As they settled into the pullout sofa bed that night, Adam whispered in the dark, "Dad."

"Yes?"

"I'm not sure I can kill a deer."

"You've shot turkeys, grouse and rabbits before."

"I know." There was a long pause. "It's just, well, like, deer are so, like... big."

Michael, his small smile hidden by the night, said "Adam, you don't have to shoot a deer if you don't want to."

"But I want to." Adam's voice broke a bit on that. "I'm just afraid that, like, I won't hit it in the right spot and it'll just be injured and in pain and I won't be able to track it…"

"Adam." Michael interrupted the flow. "You remember what you learned at the workshop this summer?"

"Yeah."

"Then you'll be fine. I'll be there with you. If we see a deer and we have a clear shot, we'll take it. If we hit the deer, we'll track it. We will find it and ensure that it dies quickly and cleanly. But remember, most likely we won't even see a deer on our first day out."

"Yeah. You're right. It's just," here Adam trailed off.

"It's a big thing, to consider killing your first deer."

"What was it like for you?"

"The first time I killed a deer?"

Adam simply waited him out.

Michael was silent because Adam's innocent question stirred up feelings and memories he had thought long put to rest. Michael never considered telling Adam the truth; that he had never shot a deer, and did not particularly want to either. He also could not tell him what he did remember all too clearly, what it had been like to shoot and kill his first human target.

Michael reminded himself that he had chosen hunting intentionally, and that it was imperative that Adam feel comfortable hunting big game as well as small, so he related how he had felt when he had first sailed alone in the ocean. "It was scary and exciting, all at once. It seemed like the moment lasted forever, when it was really over very quickly."

"Oh," said Adam. He shifted a bit, then "Guess I won't really know until I do it myself."

"Guess not." Michael said with a rueful smile.

"G'night dad."

"Good night Adam."

As Michael drifted off to sleep he remembered the way Nikita would look at him like he had suddenly grown an extra head whenever he tried to verbalize, in English, how he had dealt with the emotional fallout from his life in Section. Apparently, he was not any better at emotional description now either.

 

************

 

An inch or more of snow fell during the night, so when they emerged before dawn the air snapped with cold and the forest floor was glowing faintly against the blackness of the pine trees. They loaded up the cars and headed for Dan's tree stand, which lay about two miles away, just inside the state forest. Once in the stand – a pretty rudimentary affair, though reassuringly solid – they waited quietly for daylight, drinking rapidly cooling black coffee from thermoses and eating cold bagels.

Michael felt no desire to spend a cold day sitting in a tree house open on two sides to the weather, so once it was light enough, he and the three boys walked a basic sweep to flush any deer towards the blind where Dan and Charlie's sister Liza were holed up.

Michael had checked the Minnesota DNR web page and knew that this area was particularly thick with deer, on average hunters had bagged their first deer on the first day of hunting in this part of the state for about a decade. As the emerging day was clear and very cold, he knew that the odds were extremely good that before the day was out he or Adam would take a shot at a deer. He resigned himself to having to field dress a deer based only on having seen it done once before.

As they walked, the boys carried on a sporadic conversation about sports. The Minnesota Timberwolves basketball team looked good this year and the boys were excited by the prospect of being able to root for the home team.

Michael was the first to see the group of three deer just ahead through the trees. At his gesture, the boys froze in place, eyes straining to follow the direction he pointed. The deer froze too, heads lifting as they rotated their ears, seeking the direction of the sound that had caught their attention. As one, the deer turned, bounding effortlessly through the trees for twenty feet or so before stopping again.

Then, in the way that deer will, one buck drifted to the left and moseyed away from the group, crossing Michael's path not forty feet away. Unfortunately at the angle the buck chose the boys were all slightly behind Michael. If any of them were going to take the shot, it had to be him.

With a sense of the inevitable, Michael signaled the boys that he would take the shot, then raised his rifle, clicked off the safety, aimed and fired in one smooth sweep. His shot found its target, just behind the front legs. The buck jumped, ran a few yards, and then gracefully collapsed to the ground.

After a moment of respectful silence for the fallen buck, the boys rushed forward to kneel beside it, reaching out to touch the soft fur, the bony antlers, the velvet nose. Michael's quick, "Stop," brought the boys up short, their gloved hands waving in the air. "Let's make sure he is dead."

Adam and Charlie both giggled self-consciously, Charlie's older brother Paul flushed but stayed quiet. After checking carefully that the buck was, indeed, dead, Michael ran a reverent hand down the animal's powerful neck. Seeing this, Adam and Charlie both reached out and did the same.

"Wow," Charlie murmured. "A six point buck. This is so cool."

"Oh man," breathed Adam, "you did it Dad, you got us a deer."

Adam turned to look up at his father, cheeks pink with cold and pleasure, eyes bright with excitement, "This is so cool."

Looking at his son, Michael fought his guilt by reminding himself once again that Dan and his family were normal, sane people. That Dan was following the footsteps of his father and grandfather, and great grandfather before him, as he taught his children to hunt, that there was nothing bizarre or unusual in it all. That he, Michael, was not warping Adam, or setting his son up for a lifetime of pain by teaching him to hunt. Good and valuable traditions could be learned here too, about the inter-relatedness of man and nature, about woodcraft, about being still and observing the world around you, about self-confidence and self-reliance. And guns. If he had to teach Adam about guns, which he knew he did, this was the best way.

And, if he was going to be truthful with himself, there was something about this experience that reached deep inside him, setting off a certain satisfaction. Satisfaction not so much at the death of the buck, but at the connection with all the generations of men who had hunted over millennia to feed their families, their tribes. He considered most popular American men's psychology extremely silly, but maybe there was a small kernel of insight there after all.

Michael returned Adam's smile, "Cool, huh?"

"Oh yeah."

***********

The two black-clad operatives moved silently across the floor of the command center, heading directly for the briefing table.

They came to a stop, one on either side of Operations. As the words, "that will be all," left her lips, the shorter of the two men caught her eye and said, "please come with us."

With a resigned sigh she let her eyelids droop and her shoulders slumped briefly, then squaring them, she lifted her chin and nodded. Following her guards to the perch, she didn't flinch when she caught sight of the shadowed figure of the Director of Oversight standing at the window, looking down over the bustling heart of Section One.

"Well, Nikita" he drawled, still looking out across the floor below, "it seems that our relationship will come to an end after all."

Nikita said nothing.

"I am sorry to see it end this way, of course," he continued in the same slightly sardonic tone, "but your recent string of compromised missions has been the proverbial straw."

Nikita still said nothing.

"I'll take control now."

Nikita reached into the neck of her jacket and withdrew the necklace that symbolized command of section, the keys to power, the keys that controlled the self-destruct systems, removed it and held it out to her side, waiting for one of the guards to relieve her of it.

Once the command keys were in Oversight's hand, he motioned with his head, and with a light touch on the elbow, Nikita was escorted out of the perch, down across the main floor below and into the waiting elevators. Operatives stood silently along her path, watching her progress with troubled, angry faces.

She was led directly to the white room and strapped into the chair. She never once looked at her escorts. Her jaw was set and tight, but her defiant chin was in stark contrast to the exhaustion plainly written on her pale, thin face, in the dark circles under her eyes, in the look of resigned acceptance in their blue depths.

The small red hole appeared on her forehead almost simultaneously with the quiet pop of the gun.

Feeling as though his heart had been ripped out of his chest, leaving only a gaping emptiness behind, Michael tried to run, to raise his arms to cradle her broken body, to scream her name, but couldn't get enough air in his lungs to do more than gasp, "Ni-ki-ta, Ni-ki-ta!"

He knew he was dreaming, but the tears on his cheeks felt real. With a supreme effort he wrenched his eyes open and was relieved to see the familiar slopping ceiling of his bedroom.

He lay for a moment with his heart pounding, the adrenaline surge from his nightmare slowly seeping out of his system. He touched his face to discover that it was damp.

He concentrated on slowing his heart rate – breath in for four, hold for seven, out for eight. Breath in for four, hold for seven, out for eight. One his pulse had returned to normal, he levered himself out of bed, ignoring the rusty groan, and reached for the flannel shirt he'd tossed on the chair. Pulling it on, he made his way quietly down the stairs – wincing slightly at the various creaks and squeaks of the seventy year old floorboards – trying to avoid waking Adam, who was a very light sleeper.

Once in the kitchen, he flipped on the light over the stove and started the water for some hot tea. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he pondered what had prompted the dream this time.

It was a familiar enough dream, he'd had dozens of versions of it in the nearly seven years since leaving Europe, though more regularly during the early years. He hadn't had it for a while now, seven or eight months he figured, trying to remember when exactly it had been. That he was terrified that Nikita would be dead before he could get back to her was obvious, he was fully able to work himself into an anxious, nausea-ridden state about that in broad daylight. It didn't matter how often he scolded himself that Nikita was a skilled operative, a subtle strategist and an able leader in whom he should have more confidence. Twelve years was a very long time to survive at any level in Section, and even the most talented had not lasted much longer than that. And no one knew her weaknesses better than her mentor did. At moments like this one it was all he could do to keep himself from tossing caution and Adam to the winds and running directly to her side.

But why now? Why tonight?

Michael slowly reviewed the evening, seeking the catalyst for his nightmare. He and Adam had had dinner with Scott, his latest girlfriend and his eight-year-old son. Scott was Michael's most regular sparring partner at the dojo and had become a friend over the years. Cindy, whom he didn't care for very much, had been teasing Adam, trying to get him to ask her what she'd overheard about him in the women's locker room at the dojo. When a red-eared Adam hadn't risen to the bait, she'd turned her attentions to Michael, telling him in wildly inappropriate language, given the company of the children, exactly what she'd overheard with regards to him. Scott, whose superb skills on the mat failed utterly to translate in any way into his regular life, had made some ineffectual efforts to shut her up, but she persisted until the arrival of the waiter had provided a distraction.

Michael had regretfully dismissed his first impulse to shut Cindy down using the same throat tap he had used on trainees who pissed him off. Which had got him thinking about Nikita, on whom he had never used that move no matter how much she mouthed off in training. He should have realized that even then she was affecting him differently than anyone else ever had. Then he had wished Nikita had been there at the restaurant, by her presence alone protecting him from Cindy's impertinence and saving Adam from embarrassment. Then came the familiar emotional cocktail of resentment and anger directed at Jones and himself, followed by the depressing reminder that he had six more years to get through before he could be with her again. That she had to survive six more years in the viper pit that was Section, Oversight and Center, alone and without his help.

As he reached to take the faintly hissing kettle off the burner he decided that had to be it. He had been thinking about Nikita a lot lately, not just tonight. He supposed it was because as Adam was getting more independent, the more time Michael had to himself. And in that time, Michael was slowly coming to realize that he was both bored and lonely. The older Adam got, the less he could be relied upon to provide constant occupation for Michael in the future. The next six years suddenly seemed to loom ahead as an endless gray tunnel.

Michael decided that in thinking about Nikita, he was also stoking his fear that something would happen to prevent him from ever rejoining her. It was also probably a warning from his subconscious. Bored and lonely operatives make mistakes, mistakes that end their lives and the lives of those who depend on them. He could not let his own vigilance slack off just because he was feeling sorry for himself.

Knowing he wouldn't go back to sleep, he sat in the kitchen sipping lukewarm tea, watching the clock move slowly to the hour that he could begin the day's work. He spent the time wrestling with the guilty fear that his desire to be with Nikita was preventing him from wholly embracing his second chance with his son, he should fully live the life he had rather than dreaming of some future date when he would have the woman he wanted.

************

Michael heard the small chime that signified a door or window opening in the house. The dogs, who'd been dozing nearby, leapt to their feet and rushed to the door of the garage, pacing and whining and letting out sharp yips, begging to be released to see who it was. Michael told them to be quiet; knowing from a quick glance at his watch that it must be Adam, home from school.

Indeed, a few minutes later, the garage door thudded open and, to the enthusiastic reaction of the dogs, Adam poked his head in. Catching Michael's eye, he said, "Hey. You're home early."

"Client changed her mind again about the color."

"Oh. What are you doing?"

Deciding to interpret this as a conversational opening as opposed to the moronic question it appeared to be, Michael replied, "working on the snowmobiles. Come in and close the door, you're letting out all the heat." He nodded at the electric space heater for emphasis.

"Oh." Adam came all the way into the garage, slamming the door closed behind him with his free hand. In the other he held a glass high above the frisking dogs. He stopped almost immediately and began showering them with much appreciated attention. Eventually abandoning his admirers he began wandering around the perimeter of the two-car garage, inspecting various items that caught his attention – a hockey stick leaning precariously against the wall, a bag of soccer balls hanging from the roof beams, a jumble of brooms and snow shovels, a low shelf holding various yard tools, the seat of his bike, now hanging from ceiling hooks, a baseball bat fallen over and rolling aimlessly against the wall – before drifting over to perch on the bumper of the only car in the garage, their six-year old SUV, to watch Michael at work on the snowmobiles in the second bay. After slugging back half his glass of milk in a single swallow, Adam asked, "can I help?"

"Yes. Hand me the small needle nose pliers."

"Okay." After polishing off the rest of his milk, Adam rose and searched through the open toolbox, then handed over the requested item. "Here."

Michael accepted the proffered pliers, then turning back to his task, said over his shoulder, "you could take the engine cover off the other one."

"Okay."

Obviously it was his responsibility to get the conversational ball rolling, so Michael asked, "how was your day?"

"Fine," Adam threw out over his shoulder as he bent over the second snowmobile.

With a familiar twinge of sympathy for all the women who had loved him and had endured that same answer from him time and again, Michael probed a bit further. "Anything unusual happen today?"

As he worked to loosen the cover, Adam said, "Not really." He wandered over to the toolbox and dredged out a screwdriver. Then he said, in a tone of complete indifference, "Jake and Erin had a fight today, right in the middle of the cafeteria."

Wondering if this was a red herring or the real thing, Michael said "Hmmm."

"Yeah. And oh man, it was so…," Adam paused, searching for the right word, "like, ahhhhgg." And he did the shake-off-the-gross-thing shiver, using body language to convey what he had no words to describe.

A corner of Michael's mouth twitched. "That bad, huh?"

"Oh yeah."

"What were they fighting about?"

"You know, relationship stuff."

Whatever that might be for thirteen-year-olds, Michael thought. "Oh," was all he could come up with to say.

Adam set the cover on the ground, then said "what next?"

"Check the oil."

"Okay." He turned back to the snowmobile. "Where?"

"The small cap by your right hand." Michael gestured with his chin, wondering just what was really bothering Adam.

After deciding that the machine did need more oil, Adam began the process of refilling. "I just don't get it."

"Get what?" Michael asked, still in the dark about what was troubling Adam.

"Relationships. Girls." He closed the oil container and replaced it on the shelf. "I mean, what's the point?"

"The point of what?" With a slightly hysterical giggle trapped in his throat, Michael struggled to decide which would be more impossible for him to explain, relationships or girls.

"Re-la-tion-ships." Adam repeated himself, slightly slower, patient with his clueless parent.

"Oh." Michael scratched his chin through his beard and hoped that maybe Adam would continue talking and give him some more clues.

Adam fiddled with the clutch, then burst out, "I mean, it's not like they're having sex or anything."

Thank the gods for small favors, was the first thought to cross Michael's mind. The second was the disheartening realization that Adam appeared to think that sex was the only rational reason for a relationship. Hoping he was mistaken and that Adam was merely understandably confused about something else that he had no words for, he said, "why don't you tell me what they were fighting about."

"Well, it's like." Adam paused for a moment, then continued. "Erin thought that Jake was, like, coming on to another girl, you know. And, well, started getting in his face about it. And Jake told her to, like, just back off, he was just helping her with her homework, and Erin started to cry because she thought Jake was jerking her around and then Jake got all pissed because she was making a scene, and then he left and Erin cried some more."

Michael had never particularly liked Jake, even though Adam and Jake had been close friends almost since they moved into the neighborhood. Michael had always thought Jake was a selfish, dictatorial whiner whose first impulse was to blame others for his problems. Jake and Adam had always spent as much time getting on each other's nerves and squabbling as they did having fun. Jake was also physically much more mature than Adam, a handsome boy in an all-American kind of way, and as a result was adding an unbearably cocky attitude to an already unpleasant personality. But in that inexplicable way of teens, Jake was emerging as a leader in the popular crowd. Michael was not at all surprised that Jake's choice of self-defense was to make Erin cry. And he had liked Erin almost as long as he had disliked Jake.

Giving in to a base impulse to shine a little more light on Jake's general character, Michael asked, "was he 'coming on' to someone else?"

Adam sighed and rolled his eyes, "Yeah."

"And Erin was jealous."

Adam tossed the screwdriver he had been using into the box with unnecessary vigor. "Yeah."

With suspicion flickering, Michael examined Adam from under drooping eyelids, to all appearances focused more or less completely on a balky gearshift. Adam was shifting his weight from side to side, cracking his knuckles and chewing on his lower lip, staring vaguely at the snowmobile in front of him. Michael asked, "did Erin ask you if it was true?"

Adam flung himself onto the snowmobile seat and groaned, "yeah."

"And you said?"

Adam dropped his head into his hands, completely covering his face. After a moment, a slightly strangled "no" emerged.

Michael's heart twisted. I can't fix this one for you he thought. "You lied to protect Jake."

With his face still buried, Adam answered, "yeah."

"And now you feel badly about it."

Adam looked up and caught his father's eye. "How do I fix it, Dad?"

"If you tell Erin the truth, Jake will be angry." Michael chose the easier of the two outcomes, giving Adam the opportunity to defend Jake, or worry about Erin.

"And if I don't she'll let Jake walk all over her." Adam pursed his lips in frustration.

Deeply relieved by Adam's interest in Erin's well being, Michael said. "You want to be loyal to them both."

"They're my best friends, Dad." The anguish in Adam's voice was palpable.

Michael sat up on his heels and looked at Adam, who was a picture of teenage misery, slumped in despair over the handlebars, kicking the starter pedal and running his fingers through his fashionably styled hair. His son was a pleaser, a responsible fixer of other peoples' problems, almost always the first make an effort to make someone happy, to share what he had, to let his own desires take a back seat to those of more demanding friends. Michael believed that this aspect of Adam's personality was another manifestation of Adam's fears of abandonment, and accordingly tortured himself with guilt about his role in it. And now Adam had backed himself right into a box with no simple, painless way to please everyone.

"I don't think there is anything you can do this time."

Adam scrunched up his face, unhappy with this advice.

"But the next time, and with Jake there will be a next time, you need to decide how to handle it now."

"Yeah." Adam half chuckled, half snorted in acknowledgement.

"For what it's worth, I wouldn't let Jake rely on you to lie for him."

Adam sighed and dropped his chin onto his hand. "I just wish it wasn't Erin, ya know?'

Michael kept to himself the depressing thought that if it were some other girl Adam apparently would not feel so badly about covering for his unpleasant friend. "I know."

After waiting a beat or two, Michael turned back to the machine he was working on. "You helping with these or just sitting there, feeling badly for a while?"

With a small, self-conscious grin, Adam replied, "helping."

************

As was their custom, Michael and Adam joined Erin's family, her parents Pete and Miranda Andersen, and Erin's younger brother Johnny for Thanksgiving Dinner. This year they were all at Miranda's brother Jim's house. Pete usually brought along a few strays from the "U" – and this year was no exception. The English department, of which Pete was chair, had made a new hire, a young woman from California, and she was there along with a friend, a new assistant professor of French lit. Since Michael was in charge of the appetizers he and Adam had arrived fairly early, in time to catch most of the game on TV.

Michael was in the big, warm kitchen getting a fresh beer and talking with Miranda and Carol, Jim's wife. Pete, a big bear of a man with wispy, fly-away gray hair, wandered in explaining, as he did each year, that he had no interest in commercials. As the adults stood around chatting, Adam and Erin came in for snack refills. Remembering his conversation with Adam in the garage the week before, Michael asked Erin how Jake was.

Erin, pale and pretty like her mother, froze, flushed and airily announced, "Oh, I wouldn't know," before fairly flying out of the room.

"DAD!" Adam shot his father an agonized look and rushed after Erin.

"What?" Michael spread his hands helplessly as he stared after Adam's rapidly vanishing back.

Before the kids were out of earshot, the adults in the kitchen heard Erin wail in horror, "ADAM! How could you tell your father?!"

Catching Pete's twinkling eyes, Michael found his own lips twitching. Pete, who had unfortunately just raised his beer bottle to his lips, suddenly cracked and burst into a loud guffaw, spewing beer across the floor. At which point Carol and Miranda both lost it too, sagging helplessly against the countertops, wracked with whoops of laughter. Michael couldn't help but join in.

"Oh Mike," Miranda paused, still giggling, to wipe her streaming eyes, "you couldn't have known it but the 'big break up' came last night."

"More like the 'big dumping', " added Pete, rolling his eyes. "It was unbelievable. Went on for hours, tied up the phone, involved several girlfriends and copious tears."

Michael suddenly recalled being vaguely aware that Adam had spent an inordinate amount of time on the phone last night too. He shook his head in mock bewilderment. "And you people always want to know why I don't date."

Later, at the large, heavily laden table Michael found himself seated next to the new French lit professor, a slim, attractive woman named Marie. She was in her early thirties, fair with masses of red-hennaed curls. He doubted this seating arrangement was at all accidental as Miranda regularly tried to set him up with new women. However, in this case, given the very real pleasure of speaking French, if not with a countryman then someone from Quebec, he discovered that he was enjoying this mild flirtation.

Michael and Marie talked about books they'd read in common, argued briefly over the relative significance of Sartre in the pantheon of twentieth-century intellectual figures, and bemoaned the incredible provinciality of much of Minnesota, rolling their eyes over the lack of a venue for French language films and books.

At the end of the evening Marie asked him for his phone number, and to the delighted reaction of Miranda, he not only gave it to her, but also got hers in return.

************

 

Michael wasn't very surprised when Marie called him the day after Thanksgiving and invited him to a campus showing of a French film the following evening. He had been having second thoughts ever since he had asked her for her phone number – regretting the encouragement and invitation it suggested. He was about to say no, but caught sight of Adam, who had answered the phone and guessing the nature of the conversation was eagerly nodding his head and giving him the thumbs up sign. Then Michael recalled that the most recent examples of dating Adam had were Scott and Cindy and Jake and Erin, representing a very limited range of possibilities. And so, with a deep breath and a quelling glance in Adam's direction – who was making panting faces across the kitchen counter – he said, "I'd like that."

What did surprise him how much it bothered him to say yes, the way his stomach tightened just a bit and that he had to resist the urge to wipe his hands on his jeans when he hung up the phone, fully aware of Adam's avid gaze.

Later, the only explanation he could think of was that he was completely and totally out of practice. It couldn't be that he was upset because he felt a little like a cad. He hadn't promised Nikita sexual fidelity while he was gone, nor had he assumed any on her part. And going to see a movie was hardly the same thing as a love affair. But, he did feel like he was betraying someone. And then he realized it was Marie, not Nikita, who had the greatest potential to be hurt – because he was not really available. After that he snorted in disgust at his own presumption that merely meeting him was all Marie needed to become emotionally vulnerable and attached.

Despite his hesitations, he had a good time. Nikita was incredibly picky about what movies she would see, particularly which French movies. On one especially memorable occasion, after seeing Bunuel's Belle du Jour, at her choice he reminded himself, she had turned on Michael in a fury and demanded that he explain how this could be an acclaimed film, unless all Frenchmen were really misogynist, arrogant, unfeeling pigs. It was hardly the moment to remind her that he had tried to suggest a different movie, knowing ahead of time that she would be troubled by the suggestion of the heroine's childhood sexual abuse at the hands of a priest – not that that was the limit of her critique, he remembered with a fond smile. After that – in the exceedingly rare times they'd had enough leisure to have any interest in catching a movie – they stuck with farces.

Tonight, he had had the chance to see one of the more recent films by an up and coming auteur in the world of French Cinema, a film Nikita would never have agreed to. And he had enjoyed it very much. And enjoyed the company too. Marie was smart and attractive and witty. Afterwards they went to a small wine bar in a neighborhood that abutted the main Minneapolis campus of the state university. Watching her laugh, learning about her life in graduate school and the way she was adjusting to Minnesota, it was all so amazingly fresh, untainted by his past history. He felt an odd kind of hyper awareness, feeling a split between realities, as though he were gazing through the looking glass into one of the lives he might have lived if he had made different choices long ago and in another life.

When he got home, Adam was waiting up, camped out in front of the TV.

"So," he drawled, eyes flickering back and forth between the screen and Michael's face. "How'd it go?"

"Fine."

"Fine? That's it?"

"Yes."

"Com'on Dad, give."

"Do I ask you for details about your dating life?"

"I don't have a dating life, remember? I'm too young." Adam smirked at being able to quote his father back to him.

"It was very nice. I enjoyed the movie."

"And….?"

"And the company."

"Are you gonna see her again?"

Michael had spent the entire drive home in the car trying to figure out if he wanted to see her again, if it was a good idea or a terrible mistake to pursue the friendship. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Way-to-go Dad!"

************

 

Eventually, with Adam's encouragement – or pestering, depending on Michael's mood – Michael did call Marie. It cost him considerable thought to decide what was the next appropriate step. He didn't want to thrust her on Adam or Adam on her, but he wanted her to be fully aware of what it meant that he was the single parent of a thirteen-year-old child. He decided on inviting her out to dinner, but pointedly framing the invitation in terms of using the time between dropping off Adam off at a friend's for pizza and a movie and picking him up. He wasn't sure at all how he felt when she cheerfully agreed.

Again, despite his concerns, he enjoyed himself. Marie charmed him with her French, with her avid, aggressive intelligence and her thirst for professional acclaim. She actually had him laughing out loud telling stories about her ongoing struggles to teach French literature to generally ambivalent and uninterested University of Minnesota students.

He also rediscovered he enjoyed the simple pleasure of being in the company of a woman. Coming to see single women as hunters with himself as prey, he had forgotten how much he liked just spending time with women, the sound of their voices, the softness of their faces, the light in their eyes when they were feeling confident in themselves and their abilities. This of course had been one of his great natural strengths as a valentine operative, he genuinely liked women, he always had.

Living with and raising Adam combined with his choice of house painting as a profession had thrown him into a predominately male world; adolescent boys and working men dominated his days and his nights. Yes, he certainly did socialize with women and work for and with women and there were plenty of women at their martial arts studio and at church, but most of these women were partnered up already or merely casual acquaintances. Focused only on missing Nikita, he hadn't noticed until now just how much he missed having women, or rather, a woman in his life.

For their third date, Marie invited him to a Christmas concert. For their fourth date, he invited her to join him for Christmas shopping and dinner at the mall. Each time when he got home, Adam quizzed him on his progress and encouraged him to see her again. After the shopping date Michael asked him why he was so enthusiastic about Marie.

Adam looked at him seriously. "I worry about you Dad. It's like, sometimes, you're alone even in a crowd. You need a girlfriend."

Michael was sure he looked as nonplused as he felt. "Oh."

"Besides," Adam tossed over his shoulder as he wandered out of the room, "if you have a girlfriend, maybe you'll stop paying attention to every single thing I do."

Michael raised his voice, to be sure Adam heard him, even in his retreat. "Don't count on it."

 

************

Because classes at both the university and the public schools started only after Labor Day, school continued until nearly Christmas Eve, classes breaking for the winter holiday on December 22. Marie left to visit family in Montreal, but first extracted a firm commitment for a New Year's Eve date from Michael.

As for Michael and Adam, they kept very busy with activities at Church over Christmas itself. Christmas was one of the reasons that Michael had chosen to make their Church such an important part of their lives. Without extended family and with only each other for company, Michael had feared that Christmas could be an unhappy time for him and his son. The Church community stepped in and filled what might have been a very lonely week almost to the bursting point.

Adam had always been involved in the Christmas pageant for the younger children, usually as a shepherd, last year as the innkeeper. Now that he was an altar boy, his commitments were even greater. Not only was he one of the three kings at the early pageant this year, he was also scheduled to serve at the midnight mass.

To give himself something do besides sit around and wait for Adam, Michael had agreed, somewhat reluctantly, to play his cello with the small ensemble that provided the instrumental music for the main Mass. The church members and musicians who put the Christmas ensemble together were quite serious, most of them playing professionally and teaching music in the twin cities. One of them was Adam's violin teacher, which is how Michael was roped into playing. It was always a somewhat 'scratch' affair, with only three rehearsals in the days prior to Christmas Eve, so it wasn't a large obligation. And it wasn't as if he was expected to do much besides fill out the sound.

On Christmas Eve itself, Michael and Adam joined the youth group members and parents for potluck dinner before the children's pageant, so they arrived at Church around 5:00pm and didn't leave until after midnight.

As usual, the Christmas 'midnight' Mass, which actually started at 10:30pm and ended at midnight, was extremely heavily attended. The small instrumental ensemble, with Michael near the back of the group, began playing at ten o'clock as the crowds filed into the main church, then the two chapels and finally the parish hall.

Michael listened with an unexpected sense of wonder as the familiar Christmas story was retold. In general he considered himself a nonbeliever. He had seen too much, done too much, to accept that there was only one God, if there were any at all. And he was sickened by what was done by so many, believing they acted in their God's name. Because religious fundamentalism fueled so much of the terrorism that he had spent more than ten years of his life fighting, he was also intensely suspicious of the global claims that lay at the heart of most of the world religions, including those of the Catholic church. The notion that the sacrifice of one man was enough to compensate for his own multitude of sins, much less those of the mass of humanity over the last two millennia struck him as too fantastical to be credited. Nevertheless, here he was, and literally millions like him around the world were celebrating the birth of a baby who, when grown, would die in their name. This year, the celebration of the miracle of birth, of the hope and possibilities that are the promise carried within each newborn child, even the possible salvation and redemption of mankind, however unlikely, moved him almost to tears.

By the end of the service, when the lights dimmed to leave the congregation illuminated by candlelight, and led only by the powerful soloists in the choir the assembled worshipers sang "Silent Night," Michael felt his heart lift and soar with the music.

As the last notes of the carol reverberated in the crowded, shadowed sanctuary, Michael wondered where Nikita was tonight, what she was doing, and whom she was with. He wondered if she was still holding steadfast in her faith in the innocence of children, the promise of infants and the possibility of redemption for all seekers. Seizing his revived sense of the magic of Christmas, Michael closed his eyes and sent the message closest to his heart into the stillness of the hush that fell across the church. I love you Nikita. Merry Christmas.

Once the recessional was completed and they were free to leave, Michael and Adam walked out onto the front steps of the Church into the thinning crowd. The night was so clear that despite the lights of the city they could make out the major constellations in the sky. Their breath floated above them as they looked up past the yellow halos surrounding the snow-shrouded lampposts and into the depths above, sharing a quiet moment after the steady bustle of the evening. To Michael's surprise and pleasure, Adam took advantage of the momentary height offered by being a step above his father to throw his arm across Michael's shoulders, saying, "Merry Christmas, Dad."

"Merry Christmas, Adam."

 

************

On New Year's Eve, Michael escorted Marie to a black-tie dinner and dance celebration held at one of the elegant old downtown hotels in Minneapolis.

Marie told him that she had always wanted to do something like that – actually wear an evening gown when it was appropriate. She had laughed when she told him, saying that faculty members didn't usually need and couldn't afford that kind of nightlife, but it was clear she really wanted to do it.

As for Michael, the thought of wearing an ill-fitting rental tux made his skin itch, but he sternly reminded himself that a house painter had absolutely no need for a personally tailored tuxedo, especially not of the quality he had once routinely worn. So, gritting his teeth, he rented a classic tuxedo from the shop at the mall, thankful only that at last year's Oscar's ceremony the leading male stars in Hollywood had stuck with the most traditional look, sans any silly details of color or detail.

Michael thought the whole event slightly surreal, filled as it mostly was with middle-class Midwesterners aping the rich and famous, but Marie had a wonderful time. Wearing a striking brown sheath gown, with her hair dressed up in masses of ringlets, she positively glowed with happiness.

When Michael dropped Marie off at her apartment building, she was obviously disappointed that he declined her invitation to come up for a nightcap. He begged off with the, true, excuse that he had to be up in four hours to collect Adam and leave on a three-day snowmobile trip with friends.

Once Michael and Adam returned from the brief vacation, Michael spent the last few quiet days of the winter break struggling to decide what to do about Marie. He liked her, he had enjoyed their dates, but he couldn't make up his mind about how much further he wanted to pursue the relationship.

She was clearly interested in the possibility of sexual intimacy – and Michael didn't lie to himself that he wasn't. He was. He had gone so long now without touching or being touched that he was beginning to feel parched. He could almost see the fault lines in his own skin as it got brittle from disuse. He was fully aware of his strong desire for sensual contact – it was an aspect of his personality he had begun to explore early in puberty, somewhat to his parent's dismay he recalled with a newly sympathetic sigh. He had been sexually active by the time he was in his middle teens. But what lessons prison had not taught him about keeping that part of himself firmly under control, Section had been relentless about driving home. For several years the close physical contact he enjoyed with Adam – hand holding, hugs, tussling, sitting close together for reading stories aloud or watching movies, even the close contact of teaching Adam to hold a rifle or a fishing pole ¬– had been enough to assuage that desire.

Now, though, physical contact with Adam was about as frequent as a month with five Sundays. And in the months since he had reckoned up just how long it had been since he had been with anyone at all, he couldn't stop thinking about how much he missed sex, not just love and human touch, but sex itself. He missed it a lot. If he allowed himself to dwell on it too long his skin actually hurt. So the possibility of a sexual relationship with Marie was very tempting indeed.

It was also fraught with any number of difficulties, not least of which was that he still had Adam to worry about. He didn't want Adam to feel that in spending time with Marie, he was somehow rejecting Adam. Not that this really seemed a problem, Michael acknowledged to himself. Adam was, if anything, pushing Michael harder than he wanted to be pushed into Marie's arms. And Michael was sure that this was not entirely out of Adam's interest in his father's wellbeing. Something else was going on, and Michael was concerned that he wasn't certain what it was.

Another important issue was the question of whether or not Marie would be willing to accept the limits he put on the relationship, or if she would want more than he could give. That part, he simply didn't have enough information to decide.

In the end, he convinced himself that he didn't have to make up his mind right away, that he could wait and see how events played themselves out.

************

As the gossip carrying the astounding news that Michael was actually, finally dating gradually spread among their various circles of friends and acquaintances, he endured what felt like nearly constant commentary and teasing. He had Adam to thank for spreading the news. He couldn't decide which was worse, Cindy's lascivious remarks or Father Jon's openly expressed relief. It reached the point that if one more man clapped him on the shoulder, saying "Atta boy, Mike!" he began to seriously worry that he would hurt him very badly.

As for Adam, he continued to play the role of lead cheerleader, master-of-ceremonies and meddlesome fairy godfather. If more than three days elapsed without the next date scheduled, Adam became nearly relentless in his nagging – suggesting possible activities, reminding him to call Marie, and generally making himself obnoxious. Short of losing his temper with him, there was nothing Michael could say or do to make him stop.

"Why is my relationship with Marie so interesting to you?" Michael knew he sounded as exasperated as he felt. Until now, Adam had more or less ignored any aspect of his father's life that didn't revolve around him. They were on an after-supper grocery run – Michael having discovered quite by accident that this was not only a good time to shop, but that it was often a good time to talk with Adam. Tonight though, Adam had immediately launched into a series of suggestions for his next date with Marie.

"I dunno."

"You're driving me crazy."

Adam looked up from the cart he was pushing with an apologetic smile. "Sorry."

"So, why?"

Adam stopped the cart to drop in four boxes of Cheerios. At Michael's raised brows, he reached for a fifth. Michael shrugged, figuring that whatever didn't get eaten this week, would next. It amazed him that Adam could eat so much and stay so wiry. But then, Adam was in nearly constant motion, even in sleep. After resuming their progress down the aisles, Adam responded to Michael's question. "It's like, everybody always asks me who you're dating. It's like, weird, you know, that you never date anyone. I mean, like, people ask me why doesn't your dad date? Some people have even asked me if you're gay."

Michael put several bags of frozen fried chicken into the cart before saying, "That should hardly keep me from dating."

Adam frowned slightly. "Ha Ha."

"What do you say when people ask?

"I say I dunno – ask him."

Michael didn't actually believe this was all that Adam said, but wasn't sure he was ready to know more. "So, it must be a relief to say I'm dating Marie."

Adam ducked his head and grimaced before sighing an embarrassed, "Yeah."

Michael caught Adam's eye, "Glad as I am that my dating Marie makes your life easier..."

Adam heaved an exaggerated groan, a smile lurking in his eyes. "Oh man, daad."

"But, whether or not I keep seeing Marie is up to me and her."

"I hear you."

Michael doubted this, but let the matter rest there anyway. "Go get a bag of dog food and meet me at the check out."

Driving home, Michael cursed his own blindness. He had certainly been aware that his determinedly single status was somewhat unusual, but he had never guessed that it would provoke so much comment, or that Adam would be expected to explain it. He realized, very belatedly, that it would have been much better to have dated casually from the beginning, no matter how little interest he'd had in it. Not dating at all had been too unusual, too weird as Adam said, and now that he was dating someone, it was such a dramatic break with his previous behavior that it made people who knew him sit up and take note. He realized that if he broke it off with Marie, that too would flood the gossip among their friends and neighbors. It was a sobering reminder that everything he did, even his small steps to create a life for himself independent of Adam, was part of their cover – and had to be evaluated as such.

************

With or without Adam's help, Michael continued to see Marie. She seemed cautious herself about what she wanted out of their relationship, so there were no more awkward moments. While she continued to make her interest in him apparent, she did nothing that would provoke either outright rejection or its opposite. So, feeling confident that things were moving along in the direction he wanted, but slowly enough that no one was being thrown off balance, he allowed himself to begin responding to her small steps to increase their physical intimacy, even taking some, very small, steps himself.

The first week after school started up again, when he met her and some friends of hers at a bar for a drink and a game of pool, he didn't move away when she shifted in her seat to bring them to shoulder brushing shoulder on their tall bar chairs at the small round bar table. When she turned her face up to his, he dropped his head and kissed her lightly on the brow before they parted, having arrived and so leaving in their own cars.

Though he converted her invitation to diner and a movie into an invitation to join him and Adam for diner at a friend's home, picking her up and dropping her off with Adam in the car, when she came up to him in the kitchen and wrapped her arm around his waist, he dropped his own arm lightly across her shoulder and left it there until the general movement broke the moment.

He invited her to join him and Adam and a larger group for a Sunday afternoon snowmobile outing. So they spent four hours together with her riding behind him on his snowmobile, her arms locked around him for security and balance, and something more – that was of course limited by the bulky outer clothing they wore. However, he managed to arrange it so that after a long day and supper, she rode back to the cities with friends of friends so he did not have to navigate the city streets pulling the snowmobile trailer.

Most often though, he met her for lunch at various restaurants around the campus near her office, sometimes as much as two or three times a week. He was painting several remodeled lofts downtown and it was easy to get together. These lunch dates were a welcome change of pace from the usual vulgar and obscenity laced lunchtime conversations among his employees about women and/or the NBA, NFL, NHL, Major League Baseball – whatever was in season.

It was at these lunch dates that he most enjoyed her company. He usually caught her right in the middle of some problem in her research, writing or teaching that she wanted to thrash out – so the conversation was rapid, interesting and absorbing. For Michael, no small part of the pleasure during many of these lunches was that they spoke in French. Occasionally she brought along a friend or two. Michael suspected that Marie's friends were checking him out, but he did not mind. That their lunch dates began and ended with a kiss seemed, if not innocuous, certainly less significant in the lunchtime bustle than they might have elsewhere or at another time of day.

And January was over.

************

The first weekend in February, Michael was to pick Marie up and they were going to go out for dinner, trying one of the new French restaurants that had been getting a lot of press.

When he arrived at her apartment building Marie wasn't waiting in the foyer, so he parked and went in. She buzzed him up. When she opened her door, he heard jazz playing in the background and smelled food cooking. Her hair was unbound and tumbled down her back. She was wearing silk charmuse pajama pants under a loose sweater that fell just off one bare shoulder. As she raised her other arm to gesture him inside, several bangles clacked together on her wrist. "I thought it would be more fun to eat in. You can try my French cooking and tell me what you think."

She smiled a slightly defiant, slightly tremulous smile, her heart in her eyes.

Michael felt his own heart sink to his toes. For a moment he only thing he could think was, "Oh shit" and the words ran frantically around his brain for several long seconds, searching in vain for some more constructive thought. Knowing his first impulse to turn on his heel and flee was cowardly, he smiled back and said "of course," as he stepped across the threshold and heard the door click closed behind him, impatiently banishing the sudden image of the white room door from his mind's eye.

Moving through her cheerfully book-cluttered apartment, accepting a glass of wine and a slice of cheese, going through the motions without paying any attention to what he was drinking or eating, he tried to figure out what to do next. It was suddenly, appallingly clear that he was not ready to begin an intimate relationship with Marie, now or possibly ever.

She on the other hand was clearly ready, now. Looking at her slightly flushed skin, listening to her voice, pitched a note higher than normal and speaking just a bit too fast, he realized that she was playing an unaccustomed role as the pursuer. Nevertheless, she had every right to expect that he would accept her invitation, that he would welcome it, maybe even that he was waiting for it.

He also realized that there was no way he could turn her down without inflicting wholly undeserved pain and humiliation.

Because there was nothing he could say that at this point that would not sound utterly ridiculous. "I can't make love to you because I just realized that I am in love with someone else," was obviously disingenuous in the extreme, and what could he say to the inevitable questions to follow? "I can't tell you who. I can't be with her right now. It's been seven years. Well, I'm not sure she is still alive, much less still interested in me. She runs the world's most covert anti-terrorist organization, so now I have to kill you because you know too much." He would sound like a lunatic. He would sound like he was lying.

Whatever pieces of the truth he shared would not be enough to sound like anything but an excuse for a much colder rejection. I won't sleep with you because I've decided after all that you aren't desirable enough.

Moreover, he could not think of any lie that would not sound the same.

Saying that he wasn't ready for their relationship to move to this phase would inflict just as much undeserved pain. They had been dating for more than two months, bumping up against but not broaching the barrier of sex, how much slower could you go and still have a pulse? It also implied a future that he now realized would never happen.

Saying he was not interested in sex outside of marriage would sound like the lame excuse it was because it was much too far into their relationship to suddenly announce a deeply felt moral principle, especially one that came out of the blue and contradicted things he had already said and done.

Claiming a physical impediment was a sick joke.

Positing Adam's possible objection was just desperate.

If he wanted to preserve Marie's dignity and self-confidence, he couldn't leave and he couldn't turn her down and he would have to keep up the relationship for long enough to ease out of it gracefully.

Reaching this conclusion took only a moment or two; going over it several more times didn't change the outcome. Recognizing that he had no one to blame but himself for this predicament, Michael set about adjusting himself to a situation he had created by continuing the relationship in the first place. It wasn't Marie's fault that he hadn't really known his own mind until now.

Once he had decided that he had no choice to but to accept the hand he had dealt, the only small hope he allowed himself was that Marie's courage might fail her and she might retreat before bringing the issue to the test. If he handled it right, maybe he could ease them both out of the situation unscathed.

With Marie's attention wholly absorbed by getting her elaborate meal onto the table, Michael felt his spirits rising slightly. Maybe she could be gently steered away from making an invitation that couldn't be ignored. He conceded to himself that this wasn't likely, but still, some hope was better than none at all.

Clinging to this hope, he did what he could to avoid any physical contact, choosing to lean against the kitchen doorway rather than lean in over the central chopping block she was working on. If she noticed or thought it odd, she did not comment. She kept up an intermittent flow of conversation, relating a complicated story of departmental politics and university policy. At her request, he dutifully left to change the music to a different playlist.

As he flipped through Marie's ipod, he recalled an irritated, frustrated Nikita telling him that it was his elusiveness that was so seductive. They had just gotten in from a mission where he had once again been put into the position of seducing the wife to get to the husband and Nikita had been running tech from the van. That he had managed to reach closure without actually sleeping with the mark, at that moment, was as irritating to her as the alternative because she was busy comparing his mission choices with the way he managed her.

"You just leave them high and dry, don't you! You get them all stirred up over you, with the promise of relief that's just out of reach, a promise you never make good on, and you get them to do whatever you want. You get them thinking that they'll be the one to really get you, and then you slip away."

She had obviously been talking about herself. It had been two or three weeks since they'd helped Operations and Madeline beat back George and Hilinger by taking out the Cardinal of Red Cell, but except for a short day soon after that, they hadn't been able to get any shared downtime. He had considered backing her up against the wall and kissing her right there. Operations and Madeline would not have liked it, but by that time they had pretty much given up on outright opposition to their relationship. Instead he had sent her home as soon as he could, brushing her lips lightly with his thumb as he asked her if she wanted company later. Accepting the challenge glinting in her eyes and small smile tugging her lips upward as a "yes," he followed as rapidly as possible. He had let himself into her brightly lit apartment right after knocking, which he did not usually do, and started stripping as soon as he had the door closed.

He smiled as he remembered her startled expression as she sat up and looked over the edge of the couch. Nude by the time he reached her, her expression had changed to one of satisfied anticipation as she had risen up on her knees and jerked off her own shirt.

"I always keep my promises to you," was the last articulate thing he could remember saying that night.

Idiot, he thought. Remembering a night with Nikita only made his current situation worse. It made depressingly clear how much he did not want to go through with this love affair, but he still could not think of any way out. And he was reasonably sure that, as with Theresa Viscano all those years ago, Nikita would actually sympathize with Marie in this case, more anyway than she would sympathize with him. She would hold him responsible for Marie's feelings, and be disappointed in him if he hurt her.

His already dim hope for a reprieve began to flicker out as he responded to Marie's request to re-fill her wineglass for the third time. She finished off the glass the same time she finished her soup. Rising to clear the table for the entrée, she brushed her leg against his. Reaching for his bowl, she ran the back of her hand against his forearm and squeezing unnecessarily close behind him to get to the kitchen, her hip grazed his shoulder. It had reached the point where he had to start responding or she was going to start wondering what was wrong. He also didn't want her to drink any more – the false courage would come back to haunt her later.

Of course, he could disregard her feelings and turn her down anyway.

Then he had a vision of an angry, hurt Marie, with her funny, biting tongue, ripping apart some damned Frenchman who was too tied up with his son and his past to move forward. If it found its way into the right ears, it was a story that would spark questions and investigation. The food turned to ashes in his mouth and what once had seemed an interesting prospect, an affair with a bright, pretty woman, was in an instant reduced to another valentine mission, something he had to get through to stay within mission parameters, the mission being to raise Adam in safety and obscurity.

He got the rest of the meal down on will power alone.

Slipping into valentine mode was distressingly easy.

When he realized what he was doing he fought to stop it – he felt he owed, not just Marie but himself, his sincere engagement with what was happening. His relationship with Marie had not been an act, it had no agenda, and she was not some innocent to be used to get to someone else. She was a woman he genuinely liked in her own right, whom he had chosen to spend time with, to cultivate a romantic relationship with. To protect himself now with tricks he had learned whoring for Section was to demean them both.

After they finished eating, Marie said, "let's go sit in the living room, where it's more comfortable."

Suddenly unable to bear any more tentative advances, or the thought of making out on an uncomfortable futon couch, Michael stood up, walked around the table and pulled Marie to her feet and flush against his body. Placing both hands at the base of her neck and brushing her jaw with his thumbs, he looked her in the eye. "I'm sure there are other places more comfortable still."

Marie looked startled, then holding his gaze with her own, ran her tongue lightly across her bottom lip, and breathed, "yes, there are."

"There is one thing…'

"Yes?" Marie suddenly looked wary, unsure where he was going.

"I wasn't expecting this and so I am not, um, as prepared as I should be." Michael smiled as he said this; aware of and trying to crush his last frantic hope that she wouldn't be prepared either.

"Oh." Marie smiled then, and covered his hands with her own and pulled them down to rest just above her breasts. "I am."

"Good." Michael skimmed his hands across her shoulders and down her arms, ruefully berating himself for even thinking about last-ditch rescue.

Marie giggled. "Actually, my girlfriends gave me a whole box and told me, 'just jump him already!'" She ducked her head and blushed rosily as she made this confession.

Smiling at Marie as he took her hand to lead her to her bed, Michael silently rained curses down on the heads of all well-meaning meddlers, not excluding that of his own son.

She wasn't a particularly sophisticated lover, but she was enthusiastic and energetic. Michael tried very hard to squelch his own relief at discovering that not only did everything still work the way it supposed to, but that he remembered much, if not all, that he had once known about how to pleasure a woman. He firmly reminded himself that, as of now, his only goal was Marie's satisfaction, not his own. It didn't work. Looking at her replete and sleepy smile as she nestled in his arms afterward, his own lassitude a reminder that pleasure could and should go both ways, a small persistent flicker of male pride glowed low in his spine.

Another difficult moment came when he rose from the tumbled bed and began to dress.

"You're leaving?"

"Adam is expecting me."

"I'd," she paused, groping for the right word, "thought you might stay."

Michael leaned in to kiss her temple. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I wasn't expecting this." He smiled, then shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not willing to leave Adam alone overnight." He stroked her hair lightly. "Thank you for dinner," his voice carrying the implication of all the rest.

"Call me?"

He smiled at her. "Of course."

As he let himself out of her apartment and found his way to his car, Michael felt completely wrung out. Castigating himself for his stupidity, the tension that had knotted his belly since his vision of Marie, in anger, unknowingly exposing him and Adam, grew into a roiling, living thing. As his nausea mounted, so did his fury with himself. Fury that he had been so stupid as to think he could ever have a normal life or a simple love affair, fury that he derived any sexual satisfaction at all, fury that he was denying himself any honest gratification after having deliberately pursued it. As he started the engine his anger combined with anticipation of Adam's eager questions, either tonight or at the latest in the morning, produced the effect of a spike being driven in just behind his left eye.

He stopped the car after driving less than a block, opened the door and threw up into the gutter.

************

His office was so quiet Michael could hear the whirring sound of car tires swishing through the slushy streets, turning yesterday's fresh snow into a messy, filthy stew before they dried it off the roads altogether in today's bright sunshine. He could hear the ticking of the second hand of the ancient, battery powered wall clock hanging overhead and the steam quietly hissing from the radiator in the corner. The creak of his equally ancient chair as he shifted his weight was so loud he flinched.

Slumping down again, he went back to idly spinning his pencil and trying to devise clever profiles to bring a painless end to his relationship with Marie.

The sound of the opening and closing of the back door of the storefront he rented in the brick industrial building, so old it was quaint, in an equally old factory district of St. Paul, followed by shuffling footsteps and distinctive thunk of a cane, brought him upright.

Michael looked over his computer to see Joe Knutsen, former owner of Knutsen Painting, appear in the hallway; wrapped nearly to his bushy white eyebrows in a muffler and parka.

Joe got his winter things off, waving Michael away with an impatient hand when Michael rose to help him, then he crossed to sit heavily in the chair behind the second desk in the small front office that overlooked the street. The back room, which was also a garage, housed all the variety of equipment that made up the inventory of a long-time painting business; disassembled scaffolding, ladders of various heights, sprayers large and small, boxes of tape and wall mud and caulk, brushes and rollers of all types, trays of all sizes, buckets and screens, putty knives, drifts of canvas drop cloths and uncounted numbers of paint flecked scrapers.

"No business today?" Joe asked, looking inquiringly at Michael with his bright gray eyes.

"Both crews are out."

"Oh."

Feeling some explanation of his presence in the office instead at a work site was owed to the man had started the company he now owned, who was his business mentor and his friend, Michael said, "I'm writing up some bids."

"Without the computer on?"

"It's on." Michael banged the mouse to prove his claim, "just sleeping."

"Ah."

Eager to change the subject, Michael said, "Here to surf the web where Fanny can't bother you?"

"Yep."

Michael rose. "I'll leave you in peace then."

"No need." Joe waved him back down. "Stay and have a cup of coffee with an old man."

Michael, who didn't really want to go paint anything this morning anyway, nodded and went to get coffee for them both.

Joe wrapped his arthritic old hands around the warm mug, sniffed appreciatively and sipped slowly. "Ahhh. Son, you make the best coffee."

Joe leaned back to look up at Michael. "Hear she's a real nice one, this college teacher you've found."

"What? From who?"

"Adam."

Adam. Of course it was Adam. Joe and Fanny were as close to grandparents as Adam had, and Adam knew Michael liked and trusted them both, so of course Adam talked with Joe about Michael and Michael's relationship with Marie. He certainly talked with Michael about it. Fortunately, Adam had been too absorbed in some garishly covered science fiction novel when Michael got home Saturday night to question Michael as closely as usual about Marie, but he had more than made up for that omission on Sunday. He had relentlessly pursued all Michael's evasive answers until he'd managed to deduce for himself a more or less accurate picture of the prior evening's events, crowing a satisfied, and irritatingly self-congratulatory, "way-ta-go Dad!" when he realized that his father's romantic life had hit a new plateau.

Thinking of Adam, Michael grimaced.

Joe looked slightly ashamed of himself. "I asked – pumped him really – after Father Jon asked me about it." Perking up a bit, Joe continued, "Adam told me you really went all out for her on New Year's, monkey suit and everything."

Michael was swamped immediately by a sense of outraged astonishment. All out, he thought indignantly, all out! As if renting a cheap tuxedo at a strip mall and going to a public dance could possibly be measured up against truly going all out!

For Nikita, for Nikita he had gone all out. For Nikita, he had lied, seduced, manipulated, stolen, drugged, and betrayed. He had cheated, terrorized, blackmailed, begged, whored, threatened, bullied, and killed opponents and allies alike without hesitation or remorse. He had defied his superiors, his organization, his commitment to atoning for his own crimes, and what few principles he had had left. That was going all out.

What he had done for Marie was so small, so tiny, so pathetic by comparison it was laughable.

At that thought Michael checked himself abruptly. That Adam should think such a paltry thing was going all out was properly viewed as a miracle, as a measure of his success in creating a normal life for his son. Abashed at his outrage of a second before, he looked down at his hands and said, "yes."

"Like her?"

Michael looked up to find his old friend gazing at him with some concern. Just to be sure, he asked, "Marie?"

Joe looked expectantly at him.

Michael forced a warm smile. "Yes. Very much."

"Ah." Joe paused for a bit. Then, "love her?"

"I don't know." This was a lie, but it was also the only acceptable answer.

They finished their coffee in silence. Setting down his empty mug, Joe smiled a little wickedly, "Well, the fun is in the finding out, isn't it?"

Michael did the only thing he could. He chuckled and said, "absolutely."

************

Squinting behind his sunglasses at the blinding sunlight reflected off the fresh snow, Michael dialed Marie's number on his cell phone as he navigated his SUV through the busy Monday streets on his way to one of his work sites to check on Friday's progress.

"Allo?" It was Marie's professional voice, clipped and brisk.

"Marie?"

He heard her quick intake of breath, then a hesitant, "Mike?"

"Oui. Cest moi."

"Bon jour." Marie sounded cautious and uncertain and Michael mentally kicked himself for waiting so long to call.

He switched back to English, ruefully recognizing even as he did so that almost none of the difficult conversations of his life had taken place in his native tongue – and that after all these years, he preferred it that way. "I'm sorry I didn't call yesterday."

Marie followed his lead. "Oh. That's okay."

He made his voice warm and sincere, as he said, "No. It isn't. I should have called to thank you again for a wonderful evening."

Michael was certain he heard her smile when she replied, "You're welcome." She lowered her voice, sounding slightly husky as she said, "It was pretty spectacular, actually. At least, I thought so."

Michael refused to dwell on the concept of spectacular first sex, when he had known it, and when he had not. He kept his voice light. "I'm flattered you thought so."

Marie only giggled nervously, so Michael continued. "Would you like to join me for an early supper tomorrow evening? Adam will be at school, he's in the pit orchestra for the winter show and they're rehearsing then."

"Sure – that would be great!" Marie paused briefly, then said, "and after?"

Michael knew what she was asking, so made his answer very clear. "And after I'll drop you off before I go get Adam."

"Oh." Marie's voice hardened with disappointed anger. "I guess nothing's really changed then."

Her tone stung and Michael snapped, "Everything has changed, Marie. But Adam hasn't gone anywhere. He's still thirteen. His mother is still dead."

Michael winced as soon as he said the words. He hadn't intended to say such a thing, but he had been irritated by the note of bitter hurt in Marie's voice, and his concentration was split by the need to slip the SUV past a semi-truck making a delivery to small storefront from the narrow street, so he had been unable to check himself.

Marie's reply was a subdued and chastened, "Of course."

There was a long beat of uncomfortable silence, when Michael had a flash of inspiration. "You teach on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Yes?"

Marie was obviously confused by the change in direction. "Yes?"

"So, tomorrow's Tuesday. Where will you be around ten o'clock tomorrow morning?"

"Um – at my office on campus. Why?"

Michael let his voice carry all the suggestion and promise he could muster. "Well, then, I will visit you there."

There was silence, then Marie squeaked, "In my office?"

Michael smiled at her discomfiture. "Yes. Why not?"

"I, oh God, I don't know Michael." Marie giggled again, obviously equal parts thrilled and terrified by the idea. Her voice rose in pitch with her nervousness. "I don't think I'm ready to be that adventurous. What if the department secretary guessed? Oh God, I'd die of embarrassment!"

Michael resolutely banished the unbidden memories of all the various locations he and Nikita had resorted to in their bad-old sneaking around days, and sometimes even later on, because they couldn't wait to get to one of their apartments, they were on a mission, or just for the thrill of it. He said, "Your apartment, then?"

Marie's voice was low again, and full of excited anticipation as she answered, "my apartment then."

************

After long consideration, Michael decided that Marie had to end the relationship on her own terms, and without any ridiculous schemes on his part. So, Michael dutifully saw Marie on Tuesday, in the morning and for the early dinner, and on Thursday morning, again at her apartment. No matter how much he scolded himself about it either, he still found it was a bit of a thrill to know that once again an attractive, intelligent woman was eagerly waiting to welcome him into her bed.

Michael debated asking Marie to accompany him to the middle school winter festival on Friday night – a talent show-cum-variety acts featuring awkward middle schoolers, some of them surprisingly talented, most of them just awkward. In the end, Michael decided that he was not ready to so publicly announce he had a serious girlfriend, especially one who, as he reminded himself, wouldn't be around all that long anyway.

If Marie was miffed about not being invited, she hid it admirably, regaling him the next day with a long retelling of her evening with friends, an evening that began at a local watering hole with after work drinks and ended many, many hours later at a downtown dance club. Michael was glad the conversation was over the phone, so he didn't have to work too hard to hide his reaction – which was primarily relief. Even with the all its awkwardness and unintended humor, the middle school winter show was far more appealing to him than a long evening of forced gaiety in the company of strangers.

Hanging up the phone, it occurred to him that he was getting old. Or, maybe, he always had been. Even as a young revolutionary in Paris, he hadn't been all that enthusiastic about spending long evenings wandering from bar to restaurant to club to bar in the midst of a motley assortment of friends and acquaintances. Or, on second thought, maybe he had, and he just didn't remember any more. On that depressing note, Michael decided it was time to take the dogs for a run.

***********

The following Friday night he skied as usual with Adam and the middle school ski club, missed the week before only because of the winter festival. At the small, local ski hill Michael tried not to be too contemptuous, or remember too clearly his beloved French Alps. Michael had taught Adam to ski during their first winter in Minnesota, and as with most sports, Adam had taken to it immediately. They had skied together after that each winter, all winter long. Michael, meanwhile, had also seized the rare opportunity to live out a childhood dream and qualified for the Ski Patrol.

Marie said she skied some, but had so far declined Michael's invitation to ski with them. This Friday, she came along. It turned out she had not skied in many years, and after her second over-ambitious run, and third hard fall, Michael parked her in the bar at her suggestion and stopped in to check on her once an hour or so until it was time to leave. He tried not to remember how quickly Nikita had taken to the slopes, even when she had laughingly rejected skies as old-fashioned and insisted on snowboarding instead.

As a volunteer member of the Ski Patrol unit at the ski hill, he was on duty rousting twelve year old tipplers from the back trails – it mystified him that they should think they were the first kids to ever sneak botas full of peppermint schnapps' in under their jackets – and picking up tumbled skiers. There was one broken leg that night and two twisted or sprained ankles and one sprained wrist. All things being equal, it was not too bad for a Friday night at the end of peak season.

Marie was gracious enough about it, but it was clear to Michael that the evening could not be considered a success.

After they dropped Marie off at her apartment, the evening immediately went further downhill when Adam said, in a tone full of contempt, "sort of a drag, isn't it Dad? Having a girlfriend who can't ski?"

Michael said, "There are plenty of other things to do besides ski."

He immediately had cause to regret his choice of phrase when he heard Adam's barely swallowed, smirking, "uh huh."

Michael elected to retreat into selective parental deafness and didn't rise to the bait.

The thing that sent Michael to sleep with a smile on his lips was the pleasant thought that the evening had clearly demonstrated to Marie some of the differences between them.

************

Michael measured the last of the pancake mix into the bowl for the fourth batch of pancake batter of the morning, and marveled at his obtuseness that he should have forgotten to factor in competition over who could eat the most when he purchased groceries designed to see himself and four thirteen year old boys through three and half days of skiing. At the rate they were going he was going to have to make a run for more provisions before the day was out.

Just then, Adam sang out, "Da-ad, more pancakes please!"

This was accompanied by a round of giggles and exaggerated groans, and as Michael flipped the pancake cooking in the pan he heard Charlie Peterson say, "Geez, dude, I can't believe you're going to eat more!"

"Why not? I'm still hungry!" Jon Yang declared, turning to face Michael who was bringing another loaded plate to the table. " Could I have some more pancakes too, please?"

"Of course." Michael couldn't help but smile as tiny roly-poly Jon turned directed a beseeching glance his way. "Coming right up."

Returning to his labors at the stove, Michael acknowledged to himself that the ski-trip over Adam's mid-winter break was actually turning out to be far more fun than he had anticipated when he had originally agreed, in a moment of madness he frequently regretted afterwards, to let Adam invite three friends to come with them. The insufferable Jake Litman was fortunately elsewhere with his family, so the three friends Adam had invited were all boys that Michael both approved of and genuinely liked. Charlie, of course, was a familiar traveling companion for Michael and Adam, and Jon Yang and Paul Emad were turning out to be easy to take as well.

Michael had actually been a bit surprised that Adam had chosen to invite Jon and Paul, for unlike Adam and Charlie, they were not avid outdoor sports enthusiasts. Jon had never skied in his life and towering Paul, all elbows, knees and ears, at best could be described as an advanced beginner. In fact, Michael would have been hard pressed to describe the boys as a group in a single word, for the only thing they had in common was Adam.

This morning, their second of the three full days at an old ski resort in the snow-belt of Michigan's upper peninsula, Michael found himself wondering how consciously Adam had shaped the group, and how much his choices reflected simple impulse. Given the split in experience and, to be honest, ability, he had expected to see the boys break up into competitive pairs based on skill, and was completely wrong. Michael insisted that the novices take the formal lessons each morning while Adam and Charlie risked life and limb as they struggled to outdo each other on the terrain slopes, and he had expected that the division would last into the afternoons. So he was pleasantly surprised yesterday when Adam took Jon under his wing and Charlie partnered with Paul, and for the most part the four of them stuck together on the hills.

He had not been skiing with the boys. Not only would they have resented it, he was also using the opportunity to test his ability to keep constant track of the whereabouts of four moving targets in a crowd, a task made much simpler by their choice to stay together.

Pouring more batter into the dented pan that came as part of the 'fully equipped kitchen' in the rental units located along the edge of the ski-runs, Michael glanced at his watch. "Jon and Paul need to be at the lodge for their lesson in ten minutes."

This announcement produced a flurry of activity. The boys inhaled, apparently without chewing, every last pancake on the table, drained every glass, fought their way through the pile of outerwear, donned gloves, helmets, boots, goggles, coats and scarves, and disappeared in a barrage of banging doors as each of them reappeared at least once in search of something left behind.

Once they were finally gone, the silence inside the rental-unit was almost deafening by comparison. Michael poured himself a second cup of coffee and set about cleaning up from breakfast, enjoying the morning sun pouring in the high clerestory windows of the 1970s-era condo.

In the quiet, he found his thoughts turning, again, to the question of Marie and what to do about their relationship. In the three weeks since they had become lovers he had come to realize that as much as he might wish he had never started the affair, he was equally loath to end it and return to a single, celibate existence.

With very mixed motives, he had actually invited her to come along on this trip, an offer that had been received gratefully and declined with horror. If he had been the slightest bit disappointed, he hadn't been at all surprised. Not only was Marie unlikely to enjoy a skiing vacation, during the last two or three times that Michael, Marie and Adam had done something together, Adam had been remarkably unpleasant without actually crossing a line that would allow Michael to reprimand him for his behavior. Adam had alternated between politely quelling disinterest whenever conversation was directed at him and astonishing garrulity when it was not. He carried about such boy things as violent computer games, obscure sports facts and hunting arcana, all seemingly calculated to maximize Marie's boredom and distaste, all offered with his most engaging smile so firmly in place it was impossible to cut him off without being rewarded by a look of hurt befuddlement.

While this in general suited his purpose of showing Marie just how difficult a long-term relationship would be, it had also been surprisingly mortifying. Michael had never, until now, had occasion to be ashamed of his son's behavior, and he had not liked it one bit.

Leaning on his poles late the following afternoon, Michael knew to his pride that he had nothing to be embarrassed for in Adam's behavior with his friends this weekend. The boys had continued to get along amazingly well, there had been no serious arguments, no sulking, and no ganging up one on three, and Charlie and Adam had continued to ski with Paul and Jon in the afternoons. This had meant that Jon and Paul were forced to ski far past their ability most of the time, and endure uncounted numbers of falls with good grace, but somehow the boys managed to find this consistently hilarious and not, as Michael had feared, humiliating.

It also meant that by the last day, all four boys were able to ski on the longest, most pleasant, moderately difficult runs. However they did it, by the end of the trip Michael was impressed by all of them, and especially by his son's instinctive ability to create a cohesive group out of an unlikely assortment of individuals.

It reminded Michael of Nikita.

Watching Adam with his friends, he remembered the way Nikita would lead teams forged on the basis of her individual relationships with each member of her squad, until they were bound together by their seamless loyalty to her, absolutely confident in her loyalty to them. If Walter's stories were to be believed, it was the way Paul Wolfe had once led his men as well. Michael sometimes thought even now that if he had not done the blood work on Jones' body and Nikita himself, he might still suspect Wolfe of having been her father after all.

By the time Michael dropped off the last of the exhausted boys at their own doors, he was also impressed by the sheer number of fart jokes, fueled by enormous quantities of soda and pizza, that could keep thirteen year old boys laughing so hard they could barely breathe.

************

In the weeks that followed the ski trip, Michael was both flattered and dismayed by the way Marie threw herself into making the most of the time she and Michael had together. Michael's life continued to place limits on the amount of time they could spend together, but it was not as troublesome to her as it might have been for another woman. She had tremendous professional burdens herself in her first year of teaching and trying to get her own scholarly writing and research program up and running, and her responsibilities easily could have absorbed fully all her available hours. Sometimes, Michael even suspected that she was grateful that their time together was relatively tightly scheduled.

She called Michael daily, though, sometimes more than once, just to chat briefly, and during their continuing mid-day dalliances treated Michael to a parade of new lingerie and increasingly bold and adventurous sex play. While Michael was happy to be an enthusiastic participant, he felt more than a little like he was acting out scenes from various erotica aimed at women and he would have liked to have the script beforehand. It also made him long for Nikita's sensible lycra sports briefs and athletic bras, or even Elena's white linen nightgowns. That he remembered perfectly clearly that both women also had a penchant for expensive lingerie, as indeed had Simone, was somehow totally irrelevant.

He could, of course, have taken firmer control of their sexual life, but he chose not to. He wanted Marie to feel in charge of their relationship, and she was obviously getting a thrill out of what seemed to be a role-change of sorts for her, and her pleasure in that was infectious in its own way.

Michael and Marie also had developed what amounted to a standing Saturday night date, sometimes with her friends, sometimes with his, most often just the two of them, supported by the odd dinner worked in and around Michael's and Adam's other obligations, occasionally with a still sulky Adam in attendance.

Michael continued to enjoy the time he spent with Marie. He knew, in the back of his mind that he wanted the relationship to end, but in the day to day, it was easy to push that thought aside in favor of enjoying the moment. Her passion for her work was captivating, and the sex, however awkwardly framed, was more than satisfying and certainly far better than the alternative of sex for one. Her stories of internal University politics and bureaucratic inanities, though, gave him pause, and made him wonder if the Section had been as unique as he had thought, or just deadlier than most.

Given Marie's determination to find ways to accommodate Michael's priorities, though not without an occasional sharp remark, Adam's continuing about-face in attitude had Michael shaking his head in frustration.

Adam not only stopped encouraging the relationship, he stopped asking about it altogether. Not that Michael wasn't perfectly happy to forgo the dreaded post-date interrogation, but the thoroughness of the change was unsettling. Adam stopped delivering messages from Marie as soon as he saw Michael. Instead he left them scrawled by the phone, often on scraps of paper that bore no resemblance to the message pad placed by the phone for that very purpose, and which Adam continued to use for all other calls he took for Michael. It reached the embarrassing point where Michael had to tell Marie to use only his cell number to reach him, as the home number was no longer reliable.

On the first Wednesday of March, Adam actually went so far as to complain about Michael's time with Marie. They were unloading groceries from a late evening run to the store on their way home from their usual workout at the dojo, and talking over the schedule for the upcoming weekend when Adam stopped so quickly that Michael almost stumbled into him. Adam dropped the bag of dog food he was lugging into the kitchen with a dramatic thud and exclaimed, "You're seeing Marie again? That's like, the fifth Saturday in a row!"

Michael blinked at this outburst. Moving past the obstruction of boy, dogs and dog food to deposit the bags he was carrying on the counter, he said, "She is, as you have pointed out, my girlfriend."

"Yeah – I know – but – geeze . . ."

Michael looked curiously at Adam, "But, geeze, what?"

"Does she have to take so much of your time?"

As Marie had said something almost exactly the same with regards to Adam, and with far more justification, that very afternoon, Michael nearly did a double take of astonishment. "That's generally how it works."

Adam muttered a resentful, "I suppose."

Michael looked carefully at his son's glowering expression. "I thought you liked Marie, and wanted me to date her?" Michael was concerned enough that he ventured a very, very cautious, "What's up, Adam?"

Adam only shrugged and turned away, saying, "nothing. Don't worry about it. Sorry I over-reacted."

"It's okay." Michael contemplated Adam's answer briefly, and decided to move on. "So – what do you want to do Saturday night?"

Adam was putting the bag of dog food away. Closing the closet door, he looked at his father and said, "Can I stay over at Jon Yang's? He called this afternoon and asked me and Dave Lutjens over to play Battlenet," Michael recognized the name of a fellow acolyte, "We're all serving the ten o'clock mass and his mom will take us to church."

Michael stared incredulously at Adam, unable to keep his laughter at the absurdity of the situation from bubbling up and coloring his voice as he said, "you want to spend the night with friends playing computer games, but object to me taking Marie out the same evening?"

Adam looked startled, then abashed. "Oh. I guess I didn't think of that."

Adam was so flustered and dismayed, Michael couldn't help himself and stared to laugh out loud, and after a moment, Adam joined in. Rolling his eyes, he grinned at Michael and said, "pretty stupid, huh? I guess, it's just, like, weird, ya know? You having a girlfriend all of a sudden."

Michael reached out and gripped Adam's shoulder, shaking him lightly into a half embrace. "For you and me both, Adam."

 

*************

Near the middle of March a long-brewing fight between two of Michael's three full-time painters exploded, with the end result that they both quit. That meant that work picked up dramatically for Michael personally over the next several weeks as he and his lone employee struggled to meet their commitments and hire two new painters as quickly as they could. He regularly put in eight- and nine-hour days, and worked Saturday afternoons as well, once even on a Sunday afternoon. To his bemused pride, Adam even volunteered to help out and they painted side-by-side, three Saturdays running.

Marie was as determinedly cheerful as ever throughout, though there were increasing flashes of petulance as well, especially over Michael's non-existent free time. This might have bothered Michael more, but having survived Nikita, a world-class master of petulance in her early twenties, Marie's occasional complaints did not trouble him at all.

Just when Michael had finally settled his employee crisis, Adam came down with the hideous three-day flu sweeping his middle school and promptly passed it on to Michael, who in turn passed it on to Marie. Somewhere in the midst of the siege of the stomach virus, Marie insisted on having her first fight with Michael, who was too weak himself to do much to head off the storm.

Naturally enough, her complaints centered on time, or rather, his lack of it for her. Michael had been unable to see her during the day for weeks because he was painting each day without a break, and his evenings remained as full of obligations as ever. Her unhappiness with the situation was certainly reasonable under the circumstances, and Michael, still sore from long bouts of nausea and the accompanying dehydration, thought it might be best to let her vent her frustrations.

To his faint surprise, what she zeroed in on was not her desire that he devote more time to her away from his responsibilities, but rather, that he let her more fully into his life.

"Why can't I ever stay at your house?" She wanted to know, "and why are the only times you can spend the whole night with me are when Adam is away with friends?"

The true answers to these questions were ones that Michael could not, would not give her. He did not want Marie in his bed because it implied a level of commitment he simply did not feel. And he would not leave Adam alone at night because he was still afraid of terrorists with long memories, or new knowledge of Nikita's weaknesses.

But he had not told Marie even the sanitized version of Adam's kidnapping. All he had given her was the cover story he and Adam always used. He told Marie that Europe held too many painful memories because of his unhappy separation from his wife prior to her fatal accident. After Adam's mother's death, Michael had decided to start over someplace new, someplace where he and Adam could build a new life, free from the past. The kidnapping, Michael's long absence before Elena's death, and the story that Adam knew regarding it was, under strictest confidence, shared only with a trusted few. So far, Michael had avoided sharing that version of their past with Marie, feeling it would generate both pity and interest, and he did not want to encourage either. The result was that to his dismay, he now found himself in a predicament he had sworn he would never let happen again - he was in a relationship studded with lies, mostly lies of omission it was true, but deeply important central lies that now had to be covered up with more lies.

"My bed squeaks and I'm not any more ready to face Adam after knowing he heard us making love than you are to face your departmental secretary."

This momentarily silenced Marie. Michael had met the departmental secretary once when he joined Marie at her office for a departmental cocktail party, and the secretary was in fact a truly awesome gorgon in the making, a woman whom even Michael judged would be a challenge to out-face.

However, once things had returned, more or less, to normal and everyone's health was restored, Michael decided to find more ways to let Marie into his life after all. He came to the conclusion that perhaps he had been wrong to block her out so completely. He thought that maybe more, rather than less knowledge of his life as a tradesman, regular church-goer and lone parent of a thirteen year old deep in the testosterone storms of puberty, would make clear to her that their lives did not, and could not even if he had wanted them to, truly mesh.

************

Michael put his new profile into action the very next weekend.

It was mid-April, spring wild-turkey hunting season in Minnesota. Wild turkeys were very popular game – so popular that there was state lottery for the limited number of permits available. This year, the Peterson's had invited Adam to enter the lottery with them; groups of up to four could enter on an all or nothing basis. Dan, Charlie, Charlie's brother Paul and Adam all had their permits by April first. Michael, who had entered as an individual, was not so lucky this year and had not won a permit.

Michael had intended to go out with the hunters anyway, he simply wouldn't carry his gun, now he altered the plans to include Marie. Marie didn't have any interest in hunting, she had already made that clear, but as Michael couldn't hunt this season anyway so he invited Marie to come along with the group. Adam would stay with the Peterson's as planned, and Michael and Marie would stay at a nearby motel, joining Adam and the Peterson's for breakfast and supper of course, but while Adam and the Peterson brothers were off hunting, having some time to themselves as well.

Marie eagerly accepted, and by seven-thirty Friday evening the Peterson hunting shack was bursting at the seams with light and noise.

For Michael, the drive up was unexpectedly pleasant. Charlie and Adam dutifully kept up their end of the polite chatter for the first hour of the trip, and that allowed Marie to relax enough herself that she was able to let loose with genuine laughter and applause at the end of a spontaneous rap performance from the backseat.

The only negative that night was that the closest motel Michael was able to get a room in wasn't very close at all – it was a good forty-five minutes away from the Peterson cabin, and was very definitely on the 'budget' end of the motel quality scale.

Marie had no sooner gamely remarked that at least there were no bugs, when a roach scuttled out from under the bed and disappeared into the bathroom.

Michael and Marie exchanged a startled glance, and then they both burst into laughter and the evening, on the verge of careening over a precipice, righted itself.

Adam and the Peterson boys had all expressed a willingness to be out by dawn, so Michael and Marie did not join them for breakfast, instead arriving at the cabin by midmorning after shopping for that night's supper at the market in Bimidgi.

The sun was shining and the air felt like spring was coming. The only snow still on the ground was in small soft piles in the deepest shade and the rest of the ground was covered in new greening grass, or mud. Michael and Marie and Sheila took a walk after lunch to enjoy the weather, sticking to the roads and wearing bright colors, and were rejoined by tired, happy and successful hunters late in the afternoon.

The next day, Sunday, the hunters went out again early, but were due back at the cabin for a late brunch/early lunch so that the two families could head back to the cities in good time for homework to be completed before bedtime.

Sheila and Marie were getting the meal ready in the kitchen and as Michael came inside with a fresh armload of wood, he overheard Sheila saying, "…pretty amazing, Mike must really care for you."

Michael froze, and listened.

Marie answered Sheila with a self-depreciating laugh, "Well, I really care for him."

"No, really. I've never even heard of him taking a woman out for dinner, and now you two have been dating for months. That must mean something about how he feels."

"I guess." Marie sighed doubtfully. "I'm not ever really sure with him. He is very difficult to read."

Sheila snorted lightly. "No kidding. The original poker face. I've known him and Adam for almost five years and I don't know how to read him at all. I know he is unfailingly polite, kind, responsible and generous. He's smart, and sometimes wickedly funny. He has a good relationship with his son, who adores him and whom he adores, and I have absolutely no idea what Mike really thinks about anything or anyone else."

"I've been dating him for months and I don't either."

"Weeeell –" Sheila dragged the word out insinuatingly, "I might add, he's incredibly sexy."

Marie laughed again, this time a knowing, possessive, satisfied sound. "Oh yes – very, very sexy."

"Uhm hmm!"

Marie's voice took on a conspiratorial tone. "Think Michelangelo's David come to life plus every tradesman fantasy you've ever had and multiply by, like, a hundred! A million!"

"Oh my! Lucky lady!"

"Yes . . . and no." Marie's voice was plaintive, and a little lost. "Sometimes it frustrates me how little I know about him – despite having been his girlfriend for months." Marie paused briefly, then burst out with, "I don't even know what his wife's name was!"

Sheila didn't answer for minute, and then Michael heard her say, "That's funny – now that you mention it, I don't think I do either." Sheila sounded thoughtful as she continued. "I think I've only ever heard him refer to her as 'Adam's mother'." Sheila lowered her voice, and Michael had to strain lightly to catch her next words. "I've always wondered why he really walked out on her and Adam – and if that's the reason he's been so devoted to Adam since her death, sort of trying to make up for mistakes that you can't recover from."

"Devoted is the word." Marie sounded defensive and slightly bitter. "They're sort of like an impenetrable unit of two."

"Well – you're part of the unit now!" Sheila was clearly attempting to rally Marie's suddenly black mood. "Looks like a unit of three to me!"

"More like a unit of two with an occasional appendage." Marie's voice was wry, and sad.

"Oh come on, you're here aren't you?"

"Do you honestly think that if Mike had gotten a turkey permit, I'd be here?"

"Yes. I do." Sheila replied stoutly. "Of course, . . . you would've spent most of the weekend with me, not Mike…." Sheila trailed off on a warm laugh.

"You're right. I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound down." Marie made an obvious effort to lift herself out of her funk. "It's just that this weekend has been so wonderful – two nights and two whole days with him, and your family has been so warm and welcoming to me – and yet, it makes me realize just how much more of him I want – but don't seem to have any way to get it."

Michael realized he didn't want to hear any more and slipped silently back outside.

************

Michael carefully dropped his armload of wood, then let the memories pushing painfully at his consciousness overwhelm him. Behind his closed eyelids he saw a kaleidoscope of images of Nikita, her eyes burning in anger, anguish or sadness as she told him in one of a thousand ways that she didn't know him, that she couldn't reach him, that she didn't even want to try.

No matter that they had somehow managed to put those early days of their relationship behind them. No matter that despite the secret schemes and power plays, despite the tremendous price lying to and manipulating each other, all in the name of some non-existent greater good, had exacted from each of them, they did come to know each other, heart and soul, body and mind. No matter that in time, Nikita had known him as no one else ever had or ever could.

In Marie's voice he heard again all the things he had sworn he would never intentionally do to another human being. He heard her anguish, her disappointment, her silence-fueled insecurities and fears. And he knew it was because of him, what he had done and what he had chosen not to do. The self-disgust he had lived with for so many years in Section – and had thought safely diffused in Minnesota – proved to only have been in hiding and ready to strike as soon as he gave it a chance, rose up and nearly choked him.

Michael had also heard in Marie's despondent voice the end of their relationship. He was certain, now, that in time Marie would leave him of her own accord, even if she had not reached such a conclusion herself yet.

That this was just as he had planned was unexpectedly bitter fruit.

It also made the time he had left with Marie seem as precious as it would be fleeting.

Michael had liked Marie from the first, now he knew just how much he liked her, how much he had liked spending time with her as an adult, as a woman, as a lover, after years of going without that kind of companionship. He recognized how much he would miss her company when he no longer had it.

For he had heard his future in Marie's hurt. He would not seek out another relationship, casual or not after this one was over. He knew now that there was no way to have the kind of relationship he wanted, and that any person worth spending time with was owed, if he had to constantly shield his lover from the truth of who and what he had been and what that meant about who he was now.

Unfortunately the pool of women with whom he could have that sort of completely truthful relationship was limited to one, and she might as well be living on the moon for all she was accessible by him.

Michael leaned over to recover his armload of wood, and decided that Adam's sensibilities be damned, Marie could sleep in his bed tonight if she had a mind to.

 

************

In trying to make more nights to spend with Marie before time ran out on him, Michael implicitly urged Adam to seek out sleepover invitations, agreeing even to Adam spending more time with Jake. At first, things seemed to be working out better. Adam seemed pleased to be allowed more time with his friends and Marie was definitely pleased to be seeing more of Michael, and Michael, savoring what he knew was coming to an end, was pleased to be seeing more of Marie.

The tentative peace was shattered at three o'clock in on a Sunday morning at the beginning of May. For the first time in seven years, the beeping ring of Michael's cell phone brought him awake instantly in the middle of the night, heart pounding and adrenaline surging.

Bolting upright, he plucked his cell phone from Marie's bedside table. Flicking it open, he said, "Hello?"

And heard Adam's drawling voice on the other end of the line. "Hey da-ad! Anything -- up?"

This was followed by a slightly hysterical chortle.

Terror was replaced by a fury so blinding Michael literally saw red behind his eyelids, even in Marie's dark bedroom. "I will be there in twenty-five minutes. Do not make me come inside to get you."

Closing his cell phone, he swept his legs out from under the tangled duvet, pausing only when he felt Marie's hand on his arm. "Mike? Qu'arrive il?"

"Adam." Michael stood and started dressing. "Being foolish. I'm going to get him now." Sitting down on the edge of the bed to pull on his socks and boots, he said over his shoulder, "I'll call you later."

Driving through the dark and nearly empty city streets, Michael recalled a fellow tradesman once talking about raising children, saying that as babies you wanted to drown them, but by puberty you only wanted to beat them senseless. Michael had been flabbergasted at the time that any parent, much less one he had respected because of the man's three pleasant and responsible children, should harbor such thoughts, much less admit them aloud. He had never once wanted to kill Adam when he was small, no matter how horribly he was behaving. True, lately, he had considered smacking him upside the head, hard, a few times, but tonight, tonight, he understood the sentiment completely. The thought of beating Adam black and blue, along with the thought of Jake Littman dead at his feet, was immensely satisfying.

It suddenly occurred to him, as well, that he had beaten trainees into submission, respect, and obedience for years – all in the guise of martial arts training, of course, but he had beaten them all the same. Even Nikita. As in turn, had he been beaten, first in prison and then later in Section.

He knew he wouldn't beat Adam, tonight, or any time of course. But as to what he would do, he had no idea. Rage had gotten him up and out of Marie's so fast he hadn't yet focused on coming up with a suitable response.

The first white-hot heat of anger faded by the time he was halfway across the city. As his temper cooled, Michael was able to acknowledge that his fury had derived mostly from terror of the past reaching out to take Adam from him, rather than from the obnoxiously silly comment that Adam had actually made. As much as he wished that Adam recognized that such a call would inevitably trigger Michael's memories of the past, Adam was still only thirteen and, mostly, still a boy who would not think of that possibility.

But he was on his way to get Adam anyway, so Michael did what he often did when he was stumped by a discipline problem – he asked himself what Roberta Wirth, had she been sober and attentive, ought to have done for Nikita in a similar situation.

The instant Adam slunk into the SUV on a cloud of distinctive odors, a bittersweet mingling of tobacco, beer and marijuana, Michael jettisoned his hazy plan for a gentle but firm father/son chat. Tossing aside any notion of what Bobbie Wirth ought or ought not to have done, Michael decided to do exactly what he had done when he was in charge of Nikita's training and she had indulged in foolish adolescent behavior.

Pulling away from the curb, Michael headed directly for the dojo.

 

************

 

As Michael swung the SUV onto a major artery heading away from their house, Adam cried "Dad?! Where're we going?"

"The dojo. I have keys."

There was an incredulous pause, then, in the careful accents of someone pointing out the obvious to clearly insane and possibly dangerous person, Adam said, "It's the middle of the night!"

"Sensei suggested I work your techniques with you, tell him if I think you're ready for the Sho Dan tests. If you have enough energy to be making rude phone calls at this hour, we can make better use of the time."

Adam said nothing for so long Michael began to wonder if he was going to a react at all, when he heard Adam's tentative, "Um, Dad…?"

"Yes."

"I'm really sorry." Adam's voice grew firmer, sounding like the verbal equivalent of squaring his shoulders. "I know I shouldn't've done it. I'll apologize to Marie tomorrow, honest."

"Yes," was all Michael said, and he kept driving toward the dojo.

As they pulled into the parking lot, Adam cleared his throat and tried again, sounding warier by the second. "Uh, Dad, I'm really tired…I don't think I'll be able to do a good job right now."

"What did you and Jake do tonight?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Michael saw Adam bite his lip and look down at his tightly fisted fingers, but Adam didn't reply to his question, so Michael parked the car and prepared to get out.

"We just hung out." Adam's tone was a peculiar mixture of anxious plea and sullen defensiveness.

Michael could remember hearing that same self-pitying whine all too frequently from Nikita during her first year of training. It annoyed him just as much now as it had then. "Doing what?"

When he received no answer, Michael got out and slammed his door, walked around to Adam's side of the SUV, opened the passenger door and stood waiting for Adam to move. After a moment in which he wouldn't look Michael in the eye, Adam slipped out of his seat, making as wide a berth around his father as possible, and followed Michael into the dojo.

Once inside, Michael headed directly for the locker room, turning on the lights as he went, Adam trailing after him.

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

Now that he could see him clearly, Michael looked Adam over carefully and saw that his son was tired, probably even as tired as he claimed to be. His dark eyes were large and dull in his pale face, and exhaustion was pulling all the childish softness out of his skin, revealing more clearly than ever the shape of his jaw and the arch of his cheekbones, a living echo of his mother. The out of the ordinary situation also brought home to Michael just how much Adam had grown over the school year – he was at least three inches taller than he had been last fall, maybe four. Like most of his friends, Adam had the doughy in-transition-from-child-to-youth look, despite being so wiry, but tonight Michael thought that chrysalis was more transparent than ever, and he could see more of the shape of the man to come.

Michael could also see lurking in the shadows of Adam's eyes the fear and guilt Adam was trying so hard to hide from his father, and from himself. Michael was determined to capitalize on that opening and make as dramatic an impression as he could about the limits of teen experimentation that he was willing to tolerate.

"I…I, um…" Adam faltered under Michael's unwavering gaze, dropping his eyes to the floor and shifting restlessly from one foot to another.

"Adam." After a long beat in which Adam wouldn't look at him, Michael offered what reassurance he could. "You know all these techniques. We won't be doing anything differently than if you were working with your class."

Adam's head shot up and he flung his arms in the air, a flash of defiance in his abrupt, "Yeah, but my class doesn't work out at four in the morning!"

Glad to hear a spark of life, Michael merely nodded and said, "you might have thought more about the time an hour ago. Get changed."

After staring angrily at Michael, Adam turned to his locker and began changing his clothes, sharing his feeling of being ill used by muttering barely audible obscenities and repeatedly banging the locker door and otherwise making as much noise as possible as he stripped off his street clothes and changed into his workout wear.

Michael ignored all the extraneous activity and quickly changed his own clothes, finishing long before Adam and waiting quietly at the door to the dojo proper for his now sullenly angry son to join him.

Certain that a lengthy period of reflection would be utterly wasted on Adam right now, Michael allowed them only a very perfunctory period of meditating in front of the traditional shine before rising to his feet and beginning a series of warm up stretching and breathing exercises.

When Adam made no move to join him, Michael barked the command to start, and Adam drug himself upright and began half-heartedly following Michael's lead. After an extremely cursory warm up, especially on Adam's part, Michael stepped to the middle of the mat and called the first technique, taking attacking role, and waiting for Adam to assume the receiving role. The instant Adam was in position Michael slowly 'attacked' Adam from the front, giving Adam time to take the required stance and prepare to offer the proper defense, in this case a strike followed by a hold.

Adam's first strike was extremely lame, so lame that even though Michael was fully prepared to recoil against the strike and into the hold, the only way Michael could recoil in the correct direction was by launching himself that way. Michael knew that Adam was more than skilled enough to know that he was not performing the technique correctly, and was fully alive to Adam's half-angry, half-embarrassed disgust that Michael was doing so much of the work himself.

Further aggravating Adam, Michael refused to give the 'slap' of concession, which indicated that the technique was successfully holding the attacker, until long after it was obvious that Adam wasn't even truly holding him, much less inflicting any pain from the incorrectly applied nerve pinch.

When the time came to switch roles, after Adam had performed the first technique, listlessly, four times, frontward and backward, right and left, Michael watched Adam's glare go from sullen to full alert as Michael prepared to receive Adam's attacks. With each attack, Michael hit Adam, more than hard enough to sting though not to enough to injure him, before pulling him into a painfully tight hold, pinching the nerve with the accuracy of long practice.

By the time Michael released Adam from his fourth hold, Adam was bristling with fury, his cheeks pink and his eyes sparking enough vengeful ki that Michael should've dropped to the mat from that alone, had Michael believed in the psychic power of ki, which he did not.

Through the second technique, the third, the fourth, even into the fifth, Adam's anger lent his moves force and determination, but random focus and accuracy. During these techniques, Michael declined to be held, pinned or thrown unless Adam performed the maneuver correctly – something that Adam was too unfocused to achieve with consistency – and instead, as was central to the practice of Aikido, used Adam's momentum send him to the mat in Michael's place.

After the final pin of the fifth set of techniques Adam banged the mat in a furious slap, rolling up and onto his feet almost before Michael had fully released him, spinning to face Michael and snarling, "You're not being fair!"

Michael, long familiar with the power of silence, stared quietly at Adam until Adam dropped his eyes and sighed bitterly, curling his full lips into tired pout.

"What did you and Jake do tonight?"

Adam's eyes flew open in surprise, angrily denying the accusation Michael hadn't made. "Nothing!"

Michael called the name of the next technique, a series of throws, and assumed the attack stance.

Adam stared at him for a long minute, then dropped his head and seemed to shrink in on himself. Shrugging tiredly, he said, "we met up with some of the guys. One of them had some beer and we shared it."

Michael nodded in approval, and hidden relief. Once the subject starts talking, the interrogation is almost over.

The story was easy enough to guess – some other boys from school had come over to Jake's, where they had shared beer, cigarettes and a joint or two. As a means of entertaining themselves, they had started on a long series of prank calls, ending abruptly with Adam's call to Michael – though Michael was certain that he had not heard the full extent of either the amounts of intoxicating or illegal substances consumed, or the number and level of obscenity of the calls. But, question by question, Michael pried out enough details to leave Adam red-eared with shame and embarrassment, though whether Adam was more ashamed of his behavior or simply having been caught and having to recount it, Michael wasn't able to decide.

Once Adam fell silent, Michael said, "I see. What should I do now?"

"I dunno."

"You may not stay at Jake's house in the future…"

Adam interrupted, "ever?"

"Ever. You can have Jake over to our house during the day; you may not go to his. No more overnights with him at all. In addition, for the next month – you're grounded."

"Daad!"

"Under what circumstances may you drink alcohol?"

Adam sighed heavily, and then dutifully repeated the rule he had known for years. "When I'm with you or twenty-one."

"Smoke tobacco or marijuana?"

"Never."

"Make obnoxious phone calls in the middle of the night?"

Adam rolled his eyes to the ceiling, and then snorted self-consciously. "Never."

Michael nodded then stepped toward the middle of the mat. "Begin again with the first technique."

"Now?" Adam's surprise was palpable.

"Now. Once you've shown me that you can pass the tests," Michael paused and smiled cheerfully at Adam, "I'll buy you breakfast."

After a minute of staring at Michael in exaggerated incredulity, Adam shook his head, sighed, nodded in resignation, and moved into position to receive the first attack.

 

************

As he turned the van into the narrow alley that ran behind his shop, Michael caught sight of Adam and Geoff outside the rear door. The late afternoon sun a was casting a warm yellow glare against the west facing wall and Geoff, one of his two new employees, was up on a ladder installing a basketball hoop above the garage entrance and Adam appeared to be assisting him.

In the week and a half since their early morning trip to the dojo, Adam had been dutifully reporting to the shop each afternoon once he was finished with school and his scheduled activities. There he had struck up a somewhat unequal friendship with Geoff, heavily laced as it was with admiration on Adam's part and tolerant kindness on Geoff's.

Michael pulled the van over as close to the wall as he could so that other vehicles could get by, and got out and headed towards Adam and Geoff, who were so involved in their task they had barely looked up at the sound of an engine in the alley.

Once he was close enough, Michael stopped and said, "A basketball hoop?"

"Yeah Dad, isn't it great!" Adam turned and shot Michael a beaming grin, then looked back up at Geoff.

Geoff looked down at Michael, his slow smile lighting his face. "Yeah man, a little hoops at the end of the day, you know?"

Michael shrugged. "Okay."

"You're wet."

"Power washing."

"Oh." Geoff smiled in understanding. Nodding at the hoop, he asked, "You play?"

"Not much."

Geoff laughed. "You frenchies got no game, huh?"

Adam cried, "my dad can play hoops - I've seen him."

"Okay. Let's see if he can take me. The net is ready."

Geoff climbed down and moved the ladder while Adam rushed around picking up tools and kicking the empty box out of the way. Geoff produced a ball and started dribbling slowly as he strolled out under the net. Grinning, he said, "So Mike, what's it going to be? You and me? Or me and Adam?"

Michael looked back and forth between the two of them, an answering grin tugging at his own lips. "Well, since I have no game, how about two on one, me and Adam against you?"

"Make me eat my words, dude?"

"We'll see."

Geoff dribbled slowly out and around, then drove for the basket, rising high to shoot. Michael relaxed his knees and rolled his shoulders, waiting until the last minute, then he jumped to block the shot, batting the ball toward Adam who cackled gleefully as he caught the rebound.

Geoff stepped back and looked Michael over appraisingly. "Nice vertical jump, man. Remind me not to play poker with you."

After that the game began in earnest and the three of them played until the sun dipped behind a tall building and the alley grew cool, accompanied by the scuffle of their shoes on the gritty surface of the old asphalt, the peculiar sharp echo of the basketball bouncing off the hard surface and the chatter of the game.

Geoff obviously played a lot, but together Michael and Adam had been able to hold him off and the score stood at six to five when they called the match. A round of palm slapping and knuckle tapping later, Geoff picked up the ball and went to open the garage door while Adam bustled around stowing away the trash, and Michael went to move the van inside for the night.

After a brief consultation in the front office about the schedule for the next day's work, Geoff said, "So, can I tell Allison that you guys are coming on Saturday?"

"Yes."

"Marie too?"

"Yes."

"Good. She's a nice lady. Allison likes her."

Michael smiled briefly in acknowledgement, but made no answer.

With a wave, Geoff slipped out the door. Michael turned to Adam. "So - where do you want to go for supper before we go to the dojo?"

Adam named a local pub that served good hamburgers and the two of them headed out the front to their SUV after Michael locked the doors. Once they were in the car and headed for the restaurant, Adam, who had been providing non-committal answers to Michael's general questions about his day, changed the conversation. "Dad? Can I ask you a question?"

"Yes."

"I've been thinking. I think I'd like to stop doing Aikido for a while."

"Why?"

"Well - after I pass the Sho Dan tests next month, I'll be the most advanced kid my size. There is no one else to spar with that is fun anymore, and I'm still too small to spar with you guys, and sensei said I'll have to practically re-learn everything once I finish growing anyhow, so..." He shrugged. "It's getting kind of, I don't know, old."

Michael remained silent as he thought through his first reaction, which was an unconditional 'no.' Aikido was one of the central elements of his profile for Adam. The martial art was both a discipline of the mind and spirit and an essential tool, though a bare beginning, to self-defense. He wanted Adam to have both so that when the time came for him to leave, Adam would have the strength and the skills to take care of himself. The regular Aikido was also the most basic way that Michael was attempting to preserve at least the framework of his own physical skills, skills that he would need to return to his old life and to Nikita. Michael was also suspicious about Adam's connection of Aikido to the results of his prank phone call, and wondered if Adam was unconsciously, or consciously, hoping that if he quit Aikido, Michael wouldn't be able to make him work out in the middle of the night again.

But Adam was also right. He was at a transition point in Aikido where there wasn't much new for him to learn because of where he was in his own growth and physical development. And Michael didn't want Adam to have to do something that he resented, because then he wouldn't do it well and much of the purpose for it would be lost. On the other hand, if Adam stopped going, what would Michael do? And how?

Stumped by the problem, Michael stalled. "I don't know Adam. What would you do with the time you give to Aikido now?"

"Well, spring's here and soccer is really taking up a lot more time this year, and I was going to have to change the Saturday workout anyway because of that...." Adam trailed off hopefully.

"I see." Michael paused for moment, carefully choosing his words. "The Aikido is important to me, and I hope to you. But I won't make you do it, because that defeats the purpose. Can we talk about this again once you've passed the tests?"

"Sure."

After a moment of silence, Adam laughed a little. "Whew. Geoff said you'd be cool about it if I'd just ask!"

To his dismay, Michael immediately recognized the sudden sharp pang in his heart as jealousy, jealousy and regret that he was no longer his son's only confidant, and knew again the all too familiar sensation of loss when long hoped for events come to pass. Michael forced a smile. "Geoff gives good advice."

 

************

By early June the trees were beginning to fully leaf out and banks of yellow daffodils blazed in the sun. Michael and Marie were walking across her campus on their way to lunch when they passed a group of young mothers playing with their babies and small children in the sun dappled grass.

Marie exclaimed, "Oh how adorable!"

Turning to Michael, she took his arm and said, "Oh, do you think you would ever…." And trailed off in a rosy blush. Then she smiled a beautiful smile of hope and longing.

Michael, whose thoughts had drifted once again to Adam's desire to abandon the martial arts, was a beat behind. "Ever – what?"

As he saw her face fall, Michael realized "what."

"Have more children, someday." Her voice already held a tentative note of hurt, anticipating what was to come.

Michael felt his face freeze into the blank mask he had cultivated long ago to hide his feelings. After a moment he said, very gently, "Adam is the only child I'll ever have."

She tried a small smile and a small laugh. "You sound so certain."

"I am."

They walked on.

Ten or twenty paces further, Marie asked in a quiet voice, "What kind of future do you imagine for us then?"

He could not bring himself to say the words, but his silence was enough.

"I see. You don't imagine a future for us, do you."

Marie stopped walking, forcing Michael to do the same. Facing her at last, he said, "Marie you are an intelligent and ambitious scholar. I'm a house painter with a teenage son."

"But you don't have to be –"

Michael cut her off. "Yes, I do."

"No you don't! You have the skills and experience–"

Michael interrupted again, surprising himself with his harshness. "No!"

He paused to take a deep breath. Then, looking directly into her eyes, he said, "I left that life behind in Europe a long time ago. I chose house painting because it met my criteria, and it's been the best career, best life choice I ever made."

Looking at the children playing on the grass behind her, he surprised himself with the truth. "I've been happier as a house painter than at any other time in my adult life."

"Oh."

He looked back at Marie. "It bothers you that I work with my hands; that I'm a blue collar tradesman."

Even now he knew the backs of his hands and the ends of his hair and his beard were speckled with flecks of paint from the power sprayer he had been using all morning, as were his white painter's pants and worn brown work boots, and he held his arms wide so she couldn't miss these obvious signs of his trade.

"No! It certainly does not!"

"Yes, it does. Or you would never have said, 'you don't have to be' a house painter."

"I…"

Michael touched her cheek. "Maybe you could learn to adjust for a while. But your career can and will take you far away from here, and I can't leave."

"You mean, won't."

Michael looked her directly in the eyes again. "I won't leave."

Marie closed her eyes tightly and bowed her head. After a moment, without looking up, she said, "I think we should stop seeing each other for a while."

"If you think that's best."

"I do."

"You have my numbers. Call me if want to see me, or just to talk, anytime."

"Thank you." She looked up at him then; her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I have to go now."

Then Marie spun on her heel and strode briskly away in the direction of her office.

Michael watched her leave without a word. As he had anticipated, it was nothing more or less painful than the truth that ended his relationship with Marie.

***********

Adam took the news of the end of Michael and Marie's relationship with dampening equanimity, but he enthusiastically accepted Michael's invitation to go camping that weekend; declining the offer to invite along a friend and declaring a preference for backpacking into a campsite rather than driving in with the SUV.

They left early Saturday morning, heading north under a clear blue sky, the light greens of newly leafed out trees along the highway contrasting sharply with the darker hues of the pines.

By late morning they had parked the car and started out on the seven-mile hike into the campsite they'd reserved. It was still early in the summer camping season, the public school year wouldn't be finished for another week, so they had had their pick among the nearer state parks.

The day stayed clear and warm until late afternoon, when sky began to haze over. By early evening the western sky was low and ominously dark and it was all too obvious that the "slight chance of rain" was turning into a near certainty. The campsite was situated along the western edge of a ridge, so Michael and Adam had a breathtaking view of the coming storm. They watched in companionable silence as the western horizon turned a sooty black and tiny lightning began to dance above the distant trees. The stray clouds in eastern sky behind them reflected the last red glow of the setting sun before it was swallowed by the storm, and distant rumbles of thunder provided a bass counterpoint to the evening bird song.

When the breeze dropped off, the final sign that the rain was nearly upon them, they could hear the last cries of the frantically busy birds, and then like the first notes of a new symphony, the patter of rain on leaves. The wind rushed back in and they retreated to their tent, checking the lines one last time.

The furious heart of the storm rolled over them soon after. Thunder boomed over head so loudly they found themselves flinching despite anticipating the noise, the cracks of lightening so sharp and bright that even inside the tent they could see each other clearly, as though they were camping under a street lamp or the light of a full moon.

The rain and wind lashed the tent, making the sides shiver and shake, but the lines held, and in about thirty minutes the storm had perceptibly moved on. Once the thunder diminished and the intensity of the rain eased up enough to make speech a reasonable proposition, Adam turned to Michael and said, "Wow."

"Wow." Michael agreed.

"That was really something."

"Yes."

"Ever been in a tent during a storm like that before?"

"In heavy rain yes. A storm like that, no."

"You and your dad went camping a lot, didn't you."

It wasn't a question. Michael had shared stories of his own childhood with Adam over the years, some embellished to serve his purposes, others as close to the truth as he could recall it. Occasionally Adam tested the stories, making sure that they remained the same telling to telling. The camping stories were true.

"Not as often as you and I have gone camping, but yes, two or three times a year we went camping."

"Short trips, mostly, right?"

"Yes. Three or four days at the most."

"Ever camp for longer?"

"Yes."

"What is the longest you ever camped in a tent?"

This wasn't a new question either, and it was one Michael always knew the answer to immediately because the memories were so close to his heart. He answered, as he always did. "Eleven days."

"That would be so cool."

Michael said nothing, feeling no response was required.

"Could we go on a long camping trip like that sometime?"

"When you're older. When you're strong enough to carry all we would need."

"Geeze dad. I'm a teenager now! How old do I have to be?"

"Sixteen."

"You just made that up, didn't you."

Michael grinned in the dark, amused by Adam's wisely accusing, mildly outraged and already resigned tone. "Yes."

"Speaking of being older..." Adam paused, clearly waiting for Michael to rise to the bait.

Michael said, "were we?"

"Yes. Dad! I'm an eighth grader now! Well," he quickly temporized, "I will be next year! Anyway, I don't want to go to day camp this summer. That's for little kids."

"Your old camp is limited to twelve year olds. You can't go back."

"Exactly!"

"Which is why I asked you to look at those brochures for other summer programs."

Adam sighed. "They're all lame, dad, all except the soccer one."

"Even the music camp?"

Michael could swear he heard Adam's eyes roll. "Yeah!"

Michael was mildly disappointed, but not especially surprised that nothing had caught Adam's attention. Adam had greeted the brochures with an exaggerated sigh and a limp sagging of the shoulders. Michael was curious though, since he thought he knew his son well enough to know that Adam wouldn't have opened the subject if he didn't have a plan. "What do you propose to do instead?"

"Skateboard."

"For two and a half months? Everyday?"

Now Michael was surprised. Adam had a skateboard, of course, and was pretty good with it, but he hadn't until this moment struck Michael as particularly interested - or at least, more interested in that than the rest of his activities.

"Yeah. Down at the skate park, working up my moves for competition."

Michael blinked. He knew Marie had taken up a fair amount of his attention and time over the last few months, but he was certain he had never once heard Adam mention a desire to enter a skateboard competition. "No."

"Dad!"

"No."

"Why not?"

Michael paused, unsure of how exactly to answer without losing Adam's participation in the conversation. Finally he settled on, "The skate park is unsupervised."

"So?"

"So - what if you have a bad fall?"

"Well, I ..." Adam trailed off. "I don't know, exactly. Call you, I guess."

"Hmm."

"Not good enough?"

"No."

Michael was quiet for a moment, then deciding the time was right, proposed his own plan. "Why don't you work for me?"

"What?"

"I'd start you at the same wage as my other new painters on the summer crew. The day begins early and ends early, so you would have long evenings to skateboard, if that's what you want to do."

"But," Adam objected, "That's when we usually go sailing."

Michael almost laughed with relief. He had purchased a used eighteen-foot sailboat two summers previously because he missed being on the water, and he wanted to share his love of sailing with Adam. They kept the boat at a small marina on one of the myriad small lakes within an hour of their house and went out on the boat two or three time a week. The first year they had mostly spent time on the boat, getting used to it, and Adam took the sailing lessons for kids. Last summer they had joined in on many of the twice a week races run by the lake's sailing club. Carefully keeping his voice neutral, he said, "We don't go to the lake every day."

After a few moments, Adam said, "work with you? Really? You would hire me? I'm old enough? You'd really pay me just like the other guys?"

"Yes."

"And the money I earn would be mine? To spend however I want?"

"Yes."

Adam was quiet for what seemed like a long time, the only sound the rain of the increasingly distant storm as the gaps between the rumbling thunder and bursts of fading light lengthened. At last, to Michael's pleasure and relief, Adam said, "I'd like that. Thanks dad."

"You're welcome."

Not long afterward Adam turned over and drifted off to sleep, but Michael lay awake a long time, listening to the end of the storm and thinking about camping, and the passing of time.

 

***********

The school year ended the following Thursday. Because the final day of school would end before noon, Michael had stayed home that morning catching up on various chores. He was in their unfinished and nearly empty basement, pulling towels out of the dryer and holding them up for inspection in the bright yellow sunlight falling through the small, ground-level windows when he heard Adam bang open the kitchen door. He tracked Adam's progress through their house by the thudding of his quick footsteps overhead. Adam circled through the first floor, then back to the kitchen where he yelled out, "Dad? Where are you?"

Michael raised his voice to call, "in the basement."

Adam pounded down the open wooden stairs. First his sneaker clad feet appeared, then an expanse of rapidly tanning calf, then baggy faded blue shorts, quickly followed by an equally faded green tee-shirt with a barely legible soccer logo, and at last Michael could see his son's eager, excited face turned toward him as he searched for his father.

"Got my schedule for next year!" Adam cried as he hit the floor and crossed rapidly over to Michael, flimsy pastel papers fluttering in his hands as he moved through their unfinished and mostly empty basement.

Michael held out his hand for the schedule. "Is it what you requested?"

Adam handed over the pink sheet. "Yep! I even got Mrs. Phan for biology!"

Michael smiled briefly. "Good."

Michael kept reading, even as he nodded at the yellow sheet Adam was still holding. "Those your grades?"

"Yeah."

Michael held out his hand.

Adam grinned triumphantly as he passed his father the last paper. "I got As in math, English, French, and science!"

Michael grinned back and cuffed Adam lightly on the shoulder. "Good job." He looked down at the paper in his hand. "I knew you could bring your science grade back up." He looked back up at Adam. "But, how did you go from an A to a B in orchestra?"

Adam flushed and slid his eyes over to the clothes spilling out of the open dryer. "Oh. Well. You know. That whole snake incident."

"Ah." Michael recalled the recent "snake incident" all too clearly. A very small, very hapless garter snake had slithered out of a flute just as a group of flautists, all girls, had risen for their sectionals. Adam's friend Erin, owner of the flute, had shrieked and flung her instrument, and the snake, into the air. The snake landed on one student's lap, the flute careened off the head of another, both causing yet more leaping, shrieking and flinging of the poor terrified snake. Once the snake was captured and released humanely onto the school grounds, the harassed and un-amused teacher launched an immediate investigation, and the culprits - Adam and Jon Yang - were quickly identified.

It was one of those incidents that absolutely had to be punished, even if by the time the teacher was telling Michael the story later in the day she was laughing so hard about the sight of the ensuing chaos tears were leaking out of the corner of her eyes.

Michael frowned, so that he wouldn't laugh, and said, "and Social Studies?"

"I didn't do so hot on that last test."

"How not hot?"

"A "D"."

Now Michael's frown was for real. "Adam!"

"I know!" Adam raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I just, I don't know, phased out or something. I couldn't remember anything so I just guessed."

"Incorrectly."

"Yeah." Adam's gaze roamed around the basement, searching for a distraction. He found it in the laundry. "What are you doing down here anyway?"

Repressing a sigh, Michel wondered if he would ever grow accustomed to these sorts of stupid questions. "Laundry."

"In the middle of the day?"

"You had a half day of school."

"Why is the laundry all spread out like that?"

Michael put Adam's schedule and report card on the top of the dryer, then lifted the towel he had been examining before Adam arrived and held it up for Adam to see. "I was sorting towels."

A look of utter confusion crossed Adam's face. "What?"

Michael held out the towel so Adam could see the edge. "Some of the towels we've had since we moved here have started fraying. I was trying to decide which ones were ready for the rag bin."

Adam gave his father a long, measuring look, his dark eyes filling with pitying dismay. At last he snorted in disgust and shook his head. "Dad. You need to get a life."

"What!"

Adam laughed and repeated himself. "You need a life."

Stung by this unexpected admonition, Michael said, "I have a life!"

Adam opened his eyes wide in exaggerated disbelief. "Sorting towels?"

Michael opened his mouth to protest, recognized the futility of such an attempt, and closed it again, shaking his head in amused denial at Adam. "What do you want to do this afternoon?"

"Can you drive me to the skate park? I said I'd meet up with a bunch of the guys there."

Michael agreed to this and soon after lunch dropped off Adam and headed out to paint for the rest of the afternoon. All the way across town he explained to himself, at some length, that he already had a life, thank you very much and, furthermore, it was one he really liked.

************

After mass on Sunday morning Michael wandered with the rest of the regular crowd toward to the parish hall for coffee and donuts, chatting idly about the weather with a fellow parishioner on his way down the stairs, exchanging nods with a half-dozen or so other members of the congregation he was friendly with.

Once in the parish hall little milling groups formed, broke apart and reformed as people came and left, the priests and deacons appeared one by one, and at last, Adam appeared in a knot of other teens. He made his way quickly through the thinning crowd, calling out as soon as he was within speaking distance, "Dad! Hey dad! Guess what?"

Michael couldn't help smiling, despite the question. Adam's checks were flushed a dusky pink with excitement and his eyes were positively sparkling, his wide grin barely holding steady against the urge to break into pleased laughter. Michael dutifully asked, "what?"

"The youth group is going to go to Cedar Point!"

"When?'

"We'll do fundraising all summer – you know – car washes and stuff – and go right before school starts next fall!"

"Sounds like fun. We can do that."

Adam's glowing expression noticeably dimmed; though he kept his smile firmly in place. "Great." He nodded once or twice. "Great."

Michael frowned, but before he could ask what was wrong another friend ran over to exclaim about the upcoming trip and the boys rushed off to consult with a larger group. Then another parent accosted Michael to talk about what their responsibilities would be, and the moment was lost.

Several times over the course of the afternoon Michael started to ask Adam what was wrong, but Adam buried himself in yet another science fiction novel until a friend arrived and they went out to irritate the neighbors by jumping their skateboards off the curbs.

Michael took advantage of Adam's relative confinement to the table during supper to re-introduce the subject of the projected youth-group trip.

"Yeah?" Adam shrugged, then started using his fork to rearrange the food on his plate. "What about it?"

"Seemed like you really wanted to go."

Adam's whole body tensed, and Michael knew that he'd found the source of the problem.

"I do!" Adam retreated into a tight ball in his chair and poked viciously at a loose carrot. "I really do!"

"Then what's wrong?"

Adam pursed his lips, sighed, fidgeted, scowled, sighed again, put down his fork, picked it up again and then sighed for the third time.

"Adam?"

Adam finally looked up at him, his skin pulled tight over fine features and his eyes muddy with suppressed emotion. "I don't want you to come too."

"What?"

It was as if the floodgates had opened. "I want to go! I want to go by myself. I don't want you to come too. I just want to go and be one of the regular kids. Without my dad along. Just once, without you!"

Michael blinked. "Just once?"

"You have been on every single field trip since I started kindergarten! Every single freaking one!" Adam was very nearly shrieking by the time he finished this outburst.

Shocked by Adam's intensity as much as the subject, Michael couldn't think of a single thing to say.

When he didn't get a response, Adam continued, waving his hands in the air for emphasis and obviously making a concerted effort to modulate his tone. "Do you know how weird that is? No one else's parents go on every single trip! And everybody expects it now! They always laugh and say," Adam dropped his voice to mimic adult tones and sing-songed, "well, we know we can count on your dad, Adam!"

Michael found himself wanting to laugh at Adam's performance, despite the seriousness of the issue. Looking into Adam's accusing stare he tapped his lips while he thought for a moment. Then he asked, "And the other kids?"

"What?"

"How do they respond?"

Adam shrugged and looked away.

"Adam?"

Adam thrust out his chin and squared his shoulders. "They say it's like having a cop along!"

Michael raised his brows. "Excuse me?"

Adam's gaze broke and he waved his hand dismissively. "Well, okay, only one said that – the rest all like you."

From the way Adam's face scrunched up when he made this pronouncement, Michael wasn't sure which Adam thought was worse – that some kid resented Michael's authority or that the rest did not.

"You want to go to Cedar Point, and you don't want me to come to."

"Yeah." Adam worried the inside of his cheek and looked up at Michael, his eyes shiny with unhappiness.

"Then ask."

Adam raised beseeching eyes to his father's face. "Can I go to Cedar Point with the youth group, without you along? Please?"

"If you can show me that you will respect and follow our rules about safety between now and then, yes."

Adam grinned and sagged in relief. "Okay. Cool. I can do that! Definitely. I can do that!"

Michael wasn't convinced this was so, but he smiled anyway before changing the subject. "Ready to start painting tomorrow?"

 

************

Several hours into his third night of restless sleep later, Michael flung himself out of bed and padded down to the kitchen for a glass of cold water. Carrying his glass out onto the back deck, he dropped into a chair, sinking down low onto his spine and swinging his heels up on the rail.

Staring into the deep purple black of the clear night sky, he asked himself why he was feeling so restless when he knew he was content, why Adam's innocent, wise-ass crack about not having a life was driving him crazy, why Adam's perfectly normal, totally expected desire for more independence was stirring up resentment instead of relief.

He deliberately cleared his mind of all conscious thought, using the few scattered stars high above as his focus point, and as best he could in his somewhat awkward, if comfortable position, deepened and slowed his breathing into the pattern of a simple meditation he had learned long ago.

After what felt a long time, but later, when he checked the clock, was probably less than half an hour, he knew. Section. And Nikita.

Section was the beginning and the end of his restlessness. Something was changing, something had changed, in him, and it was about Section, and about his implied promise to return, to return to Nikita.

He finally acknowledged consciously what he had known unconsciously at least as far back as the previous autumn.

He did not want to go back to Section.

He had lived too long outside, on his own. Going back, going underground again, literally and figuratively, was impossible. He would not, could not, put his life back in the hands of an organization that served its own needs first, and the needs of the everyone and everything else last.

That path was closed and no protests about how much Nikita might still need him, how much he loved her still, about his promise to her, would reopen it.

He was truly outside now. He was not going back.

****************


End file.
